Navani
by Helen Racine
Summary: COMPLETE! Not all love stories end with "Happily Ever After." - The tale of Poseidon and Sally.
1. Eternity

**Navani**

**Start Date: **March 23rd, 2010

**End Date:** June 3rd, 2010

**Revised: **May 12th, 2012

**Summary: **Not all love stories end with "Happily Ever After" - The tale of Poseidon and Sally.

**Characters: **Sally Jackson, Percy Jackson, Poseidon, Zeus, _et al_.

**Disclaimer:** The Percy Jackson universe wasn't mine, isn't mine, and (in all likelihood) will never be mine! No money is being collected or made; though, I'll gladly accept positive/constructive reviews ... and cookies.

**Background:** I wrote this fic during my last year of undergrad, winter 2010, instead of working on my thesis - ah, procrastination! :-) It's a hybrid between the books and movie, calling upon select elements of each and tossing in a whole bunch of my own personal musings. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Eternity**

In the beginning, there was Chaos – an amorphous, gaping void encompassing the entire universe, surrounded by an unending stream of water. The domain of the Ruler of All Things.

Order from Chaos. With Ophion and the North Wind – sky from sea, stars and dark. A vast earth where one might wander and dance. Where one might seek out exotic creatures and countless beasts. Life and death. Man and monster. Sea and air.

The Sky does not feel. Death does not breathe. Ocean does not wake. Awareness – "muchness", some would say – is not inherent. Four billion years: A primordial RNA soup, stromatolites, eukaryotes. Creating life is not an easy task; the Ruler of All Things is not burdened by time.

You do not exist, some say, until you have a name.

"Samudrá," they whispered. "Dyú. Daívya."

What names?

Aluluei, Cliodna, Ukanipo, Seaxneat, Pawnee. The Greeks were first to get things – all things, but not most things – right; to build statues. The Romans, despite their thieving ways, to grant knowledge to the future. Perhaps that was why we grew so attached to their names, armour, and symbols.

Mystery exists. It is not man's task to know all things.

* * *

_July, 1969 –_

_Hell's Gate, British Columbia_

The sight was, just as Simon Fraser first described, terrifying: sheer cliffs and screaming water, the full force of the river constrained to a thirty-five meter opening. Laura Kersey had refused the trip down the canyon citing financial reasons ("I'll wait - take the kids, dear"); truthfully, the sight made her stomach churn. She could hardly watch as Jim, Allison, and Ben stepped into the gondola.

One hundred and sixty meters above, you could feel the ground shaking. It was no small relief when the gondola docked soundly on the other side, and Allison's little body raced out into the sunshine in a blur of four-year-old spunk. Ben, too old at age seven to admit to childish fascination, followed. Jim last, eyeing the thin cables with a silent, grimacing prayer. At least they were on solid ground.

The lower viewing deck featured a small movie theatre, restaurant, and souvenir shop: everything you'd expect to find at a tourist trap. Reassured of her family's safety, Laura's felt herself relax; her gaze flicking between the viewing deck, the other tourists, and the July 19th edition of _Woman_. She didn't see the accident happen - but she heard the resulting screams.

"A little girl! - she just fell in!"

The world moved in slow-motion; racing to the banister, the sound of the magazine hitting the ground. Jim shouting from the viewing deck. Men and women racing for a view, one already praying.

She screamed. Screamed - again and again, oblivious to the woman who embraced her, and the man who kept her from leaping off the cliff. Screamed like a mother and an animal, until her voice was hoarse. Until she collapsed on the dusty ground, exhausted and tear-stained. Until the police arrived, wrapped her in a blanket, an asked for a statement from more-neutral observers. Then it turned to whimpers. Then silence, with her arms wrapped around a still-sobbing Ben.

"Search and Rescue is combing the river as we speak," a constable said, his tone implying '_For a body_' - it was called 'Hell's Gate' for a reason. "Do you have a car? - Yes? No, I'm sorry, sir. You're in no fit state. Constable Carthy will drive you to the Station."

Years later, Laura could not remember the car ride, or the hours spent in the police station as Constable Reynolds coordinated search teams and answered telephone calls. She could not remember day passing into night, or Mrs. Carthy bringing over dinner, or Mrs. Reynolds caring for Ben. She could not feel her muscles ache, protesting the hard plastic chair. She could not remember the radio crews arrive. The world was chaos and noise.

News arrived at half-past six the next morning, the sun just barely awake and the landscape bloody.

"They found her - she's alive."

The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, which had camped outside the police station all night, cited the event as a miracle. "A four year old American girl, vacationing in British Columbia with her family, has been found alive and unharmed after falling into the Fraser River at Hell's Gate - a stretch of river well-known for its deadly waters. She was located this morning by a gentleman walking his down, over sixty kilometers downstream."

Allison was awake and alert, slightly bruised but otherwise unharmed, when Laura, Jim, and Ben arrived at the Hope Community Hospital. "She's in shock, though - " the doctor warned, barring the entrance to the room. "It's expected - she's been through quite an ordeal."

"Shock?"

"Yes – or, some sort of hysteria. She claims that a little boy rescued her, and spent the night taking care of her. Her guardian angel, I suppose. No boy was found at the scene."


	2. A Necklace

**A Necklace**

_November, 1985 – _

_Montauk Beach, New York_

It took several hours to drive from NYU to Navani, on one of the more-isolated bits of Montauk Beach, away from the tourists and shopping malls. The name had been my grandmother's idea – "Navani," supposedly, meant "Paradise." Up until I turned fourteen, every possible moment – every weekend, every summer – had been spent there. It still smelled like my mother.

My brother refused to visit, even after seven years – living in Seattle just reinforced it. I was the opposite: Five classes and a part-time job didn't lend much vacation time, though, if given the choice, I would spend every minute there. Once, after a _very_ bad day, I had left school and wandered up and down the beach for the better part of a week. My thinking place. Thankfully, there hadn't been any exams or assignments due.

Mr. Wilson, who lived ten minutes away, cared for the house throughout the year; Uncle Gill came every July to help with the heavy maintenance. Every Thanksgiving I drove up to "winterize" the place, which was more of a formality than serious business: Three days of reading and instant macaroni, ending with a walk-through to double check that all the shutters were tightly sealed. They always were.

It took just over fifteen minutes to unload my car and humanize the house: Remove the sheets from the furniture, open the windows, and check that nothing funny had happened over the past three months. Step two was phoning Jordan – "I'm here, safe. I love you – Happy Thanksgiving." Step three: Selecting a book from the old, dusty shelf and settling in the solarium. The drive, really, wasn't too long and I had left early; Saturday was still fresh, and there would be time for grocery shopping later.

My hands moved across the covers, eyes tracing out my father's favourite authors and titles, essentially all of them classical – Bronte. Byron. Donne. Keats. Kipling. Milton. Shelly – Kipling. _The Jungle Book_ wouldn't be bad: A good match for the squishy furniture. I settled into my favourite armchair by the window, and flipped on the old AM radio. It had been tuned, years ago, to a 24/7 jazz station.

_… From a little hill called Hutchinson's Hill you could look over three and a half miles of ground covered with fighting seals; and the surf was dotted all over with the heads of seals hurrying to land and begin their share of the fighting. They fought in the breakers, they fought in the sand, and they fought on the smooth-worn basalt rocks of the nurseries; for they were just as stupid and unaccommodating as …_

The phone, an old rotary, rang at half-past one, two hours into the book. The voice on the other line was familiar: Husky but laughing, so much like her dad's that, sometimes, it was difficult to listen to. "Ally?"

"Hey, Ben," I mumbled back, twisting the phone cord with my left hand. "How're you?"

"Fine. You're there alright?"

"Yeah."

"How was the drive?"

"Good. I got stuck in traffic leaving the city – bad accident – but the rest was pretty boring. How's Lucy doing?"

"Eight months pregnant," Ben chuckled. I could hear a laughing protest in the background. "We were wondering if you've changed your mind – ?"

"Thanks, but no. I'm fine here."

"You shouldn't be alone."

"You shouldn't have to bear the cost of flying me out to Seattle: You have a baby coming," I countered. "I'll be there at Christmas – don't worry."

"All – "

"Kiss the belly for me?" I could hear his sigh and Lucy's 'Don't pester, Ben.'

"Call me before you leave," he said, the words forced. "And be careful?"

"Love you," I responded, hanging up before he could send a response.

The house's shadow had started to reach towards the beach – it was November, after all, and sunset wasn't too far off. The shops, it being a small town, would be closing soon. Grudgingly, not even returning to the solarium to close the book properly, I reached for the car keys and stomped outdoors, grabbing an old sweater on the way out.

_Doyle's Market_ hadn't changed much over the past twenty-one years: The cashiers were a bit older, but the circus animal cookies were still on the same shelf. Five green apples, four pre-marinated chicken breasts, a small box of cereal, lettuce, bread, milk, and chocolate: More than enough food to last three days.

Mrs. Doyle was, as always, running till two. "Here for the weekend, Ally?"

"Until Monday evening."

"Did _your_ Jordan come this time?"

"No – he's gone to Boston."

"Pity."

– and back to the car, the two-lane highway, and the cobblestone driveway that linked Navani to the real world. My red VW bug clashed violently against the grey-blue paint and white trim, turning the landscape into some perverse Union Jack mockery. My mother, with her pretty Oxford accent, would have laughed at the metaphor and flinched at the car. She had never been fond of convertibles.

* * *

Saturday, by November's standards, had been a beautiful – though slightly grey – day. Sunday was utterly brilliant: Blue skies and sunshine, with a soft southern breeze that just barely tickled the sea grass. The decision to change from sweatpants to bathing suit, and to move from the solarium to the beach, was completely instinctual.

I was a good swimmer: At age four, after surviving a drowning, I begged my parents to enroll me in lessons. They granted my request, and every Monday and Wednesday afternoon was spent in the YMCA pool. At age thirteen I swam to Octopus Point – over a kilometre out to sea – as Uncle Gill watched warily from his row boat and my dad took pictures from the beach.. The thought of swimming now, surrounded by November's sunshine, was amazingly tempting – the water was unseasonably warm, nearly tropical, and the surf still. But there was no Uncle Gill, and logic pointed out that this was, for heaven's sake, November. You don't swim in November: You stick your feet in the water, and hope that some freak hurricane doesn't decide to blow in. I settled by the break, nose in a book.

I heard the man speak, but not his approaching footsteps: A polite cough, quickly followed by a nervous "Hello – I'm sorry, but – "

I turned around before he finished his sentence. The wind caught my hair, and whipped it into my eyes. "Hi," I laughed, fighting away the brown curls. "Can I help you?"

The man stared back, and for a moment I was struck by how unusual the situation was: Random meeting on an off-season beach, on a weekend where every sensible person had retreated inland to their extended family's farmstead. What were the chances?

"I'm sorry," he stammered again, "But – I found this in the sand. Since you're the only one out, I thought it might be yours."

The necklace dropped down gracefully, its trident-shaped pendant glistening gold in the sunlight. I was no professional jeweller, but could see that it was an amazingly expensive piece. "Oh. Wow. – I'm sorry. It's beautiful, but definitely not mine."

"No?"

"I'd like to say 'yes,' but that'd be horrible," I rationalized. "Somebody must be missing it desperately."

"That's a shame," he shrugged. "It'd look pretty on you."

"I – " this time I blushed, and wondered – just for an instant – if this was a pick-up attempt: One of my roommates, Tam, always fantasized about mysterious strangers and love-at-first-sight. The stuff of movies and bad romance novels.

"I haven't seen you around before," I recovered. "Are you visiting?"

"Until Monday," he nodded. "Do you live here?"

"I wish," I replied honestly, closing the book. "Navani – back over there – is the summer house. I'm just down for the weekend."

"You like the ocean?"

"Who doesn't?" I squished my feet further into the wet sand and water. The man grinned. "I'm Allison, – Ally – by the way."

"Don – Danny," he echoed, voice rumbling pleasantly. I guessed that he was about twenty-four, only a few years older than my twenty-one. "So, are you a student?"

"English lit," I responded automatically. "You? Are you visiting for research?"

"Research?"

"Your accent," I elaborated. "Oxford? My mother did her PhD there: Ancient Greek. I've never been."

"Oh. Yes. Research."

"What field?"

"Oh – " he stumbled. "Oceanography."

"That would explain the ocean," I said. "Wh – "

"Would – "

We had started speaking at exactly the same time, both ending equally-abruptly and looking out to the surf with embarrassed smiles.

"I – " he started again. "I hope I'm not overstepping my bounds. But – would you like to – I mean, if you have the time – could I buy you a cup of tea? I heard there's a good place in the village."

I felt my face move through an amazing metamorphosis in the space of seconds: Relief, happiness, concern, and surprise. An image of Jordan, with his blonde hair and half-smile, splattered across my mind.

"I'm sorry," Danny immediately apologized. "Just my luck: You're probably seeing a wonderful blonde football player who wants to be a paediatrician."

"No – " I spat out. "Well, yes." Shock. "That's exactly – but." He looked over with hopeful eyes. "Tea would be very nice," I was only half-aware of the words. "Now?"

I kicked myself – what was I doing?

"Now's good," he smiled.

Schooner's, one of three cafés in the village, was open on Sundays until seven o'clock. Most of the tables, many painted with chess boards, were empty; it was easy to find one close to the window, overlooking the nearby wharfs. We had walked into town, and conversation flowed fine; face-to-face for the first time, I was overcome by shyness. The guy in front of me was completely out of my league – and, besides, I had a boyfriend. A guilty knot formed in my stomach.

The waitress arrived with tea and blueberry scones, and then disappeared just as quickly – probably, I suspected, to gossip with Mrs. Doyle about the mysterious Jordan who was _supposed_ to be with his family.

"Are you alright?" Danny asked, looking up from his scone.

No: Not really. There was a loving, loyal boyfriend in Boston, completely oblivious to his philandering girlfriend and her attractive grad student date. Very attractive: Swimmer's physique, strong hands, dark hair, and startling green-blue eyes the same colour as a stormy ocean. And – God – it wasn't just that: A kind face, gentle voice, and attractively-crooked smile.

"It's nice to speak with another student," he continued. "Make an acquaintance: It's so hard to meet new people, especially in New York."

I felt myself deflate – of course my presumptions had been utter fantasy. As stupid as the necklace. An attractive grad student – let alone the god-esque one sitting across the table – would never be attracted to frizzy curls and freckles.

"You're from New York?" I managed to squeak. "NYU?"

"Yes," he nodded. "Are – ?"

"Small world – I'm driving back Sunday, if you don't want to take the bus." He grinned with appreciation.

"So, what's your story Miss Kersey?"

Later that evening, watching TV by the fire, I would wonder what on God's green earth prompted the purge: At that moment, it seemed perfectly acceptable to tell my whole story: Growing up in the suburbs of New York, parent's dying in a car crash when I was fourteen, being taken in by my uncle, and eventually making it into post-secondary. Hopes and dreams. Somewhere in the middle Danny refilled the teacups and ordered more biscuits; his face never flinched, and eyes never lost their curious glimmer. It was embarrassing to find that an hour had passed in one-sided conversation.

"I'm feeling a bit vain right now."

"You're fascinating," he said earnestly. "What else?"

It was tempting: There was so much more to say, and his eyes were so inviting. "Not fair," I said instead. "What about you? What do you do?"

A faint expression of dismay appeared on his face. "I work in oceanography," he said cautiously. "Done a bit on plate tectonics and storm systems."

"Do you have family?" I prodded – he knew every cousin on my father's side.

"Two brothers: Edward and Harry."

"What are they like?"

"Edward's a control freak," this time the words came tumbling out. "Stubborn. Temperamental. And Harry's just trouble – he's just discovered the worst of the Punk scene. We only ever fight." His words weren't harsh.

"It sounds like you love them a lot." His expression, utter shock, was almost laughable. "Why oceanography?"

That got him excited: About currents and systems and all sorts of sea life, from plankton to great blue whales. The conversation eventually drifted over to other subjects; we talked and talked. Movies, music, politics, poetry. It was like, I thought at one point, having one of the girls around – but even better: Someone that I could listen to all day, and not get bored of or angry at. It came as a complete surprise when the waitress came over to announce that the café would be closing, _promptly_, in ten minutes. It was six fifty.

"I'm sorry," Danny apologized immediately. "I shouldn't have kept you this long. I'm sure you have other obligations."

I smiled intently, fishing a five dollar bill out of my wallet and leaving it on the table. "Not really. I don't – have any obligations, that is. It's a long weekend."

"Oh."

I realized that we were regarding each other with equal reluctance to part; I felt another nervous blush.

"Would – you like me to walk you home?"

My mind flashed again to inappropriate, outlandish, romantic ideas. "Very much – but, no thank you. It's a long way."

"Alright." He gave me a smile and kissed my hand, stormy eyes meeting my own. "I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed making your acquaintance," he said honestly.

"Really?" He was looking anxious – the embodiment of a man expecting flat-out, ruthless rejection. I laughed, my hand tingling where his lips had touched. "The drive takes several hours. It's not all that fun if you hate your companion."

"Tomorrow?"

"Monday," I reminded. "Last day of the long weekend. New York."

"Oh," he said, face flushing. "What time?"

"One o'clock."

He kissed my hand again and turned away, walking deeper into the village and in the opposite direction of Navani. I moved down the road, feeling utterly pleased with life, taking a minute to look up into the star-filled sky – and then back to Earth, where Danny was walking in the opposite direction.

Except there was nobody there. He had completely vanished.


	3. Aristotle

**Aristotle**

I half-expected Danny to be a hallucination, and definitely didn't anticipate him knocking on the front door at quarter-to-one the next day. He was dressed simply, with a canvas tote slung over one shoulder, looking a bit like a Russian sailor in dark blue and white stripes. "I brought some snacks," he offered.

The road to New York wasn't as chatty as last night's tea; an hour into the drive, I switched on the radio. Our silence wasn't horribly awkward; the time passed quickly, and before long the New York skyline – the most famous in the world – had come into view.

"Where can I drop you off?"

"Eighty-second and West End Ave." I gave a whistle: It was the nice part of town, far out of my budget range. "It's a – family home," he justified with a blush. "Had it for a long time."

The apartment complex I stopped outside of was utterly gorgeous, from its cheerful brick to bright red maple trees to smartly-dressed doorman. "Thanks for the drive," he said with a smile, climbing out of my bug into the warm fall air. The doorman tipped his hat instinctually - he looked a bit like my grandfather. I wanted to wave, though resisted. "Maybe – maybe we could meet for lunch some time? I owe you."

"Don't be silly: I was coming this way anyways," I grinned, nonetheless passing over a piece of paper and pen. "But a meet-up would be nice."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

There was another writing pad in my purse. I hurriedly jotted down my own information. "I live pretty close to campus – so – "

"We'll do lunch," he confirmed, passing me his number. "It was nice meeting you."

My flat/shoebox was located several blocks from NYU: A fifth-floor walk-up, shared with five other girls and a fair number of roaches. We had been living together since first year and, despite being utterly different along every single dimension, had become pretty good friends with all of them - "The Six Chicks" at the pizzaria on ground floor. Everyone had left for the long weekend, and the place was still silent when I arrived – knowing the girls, it'd be hours (if not days) until everyone was home. Trish had the habit of taking long, unplanned roadtrips to Miami.

I called Jordan, but he wasn't home yet. I pinned Danny's number to my message board. I unpacked, and did laundry. I went for groceries. I read the paper that our class had been assigned. Time passed slowly.

The next morning, Tuesday, I met Jordan for breakfast at our usual haunt: A small café on the opposite side of campus, which offered student discounts and mean cinnamon buns. He was waiting for me when I arrived at eight, nose in a book, looking refreshed and ready to face the last two weeks of term. "How was break?"

I gave him a kiss and sat down, pleased to find a bun and steamed milk waiting. "Nice. Relaxing. How was your mom?"

"Fine."

We talked about the usual things, finished breakfast and walked into campus – then we parted. I moved towards the English department and he towards biochemistry. We'd meet again, as always, in the evening for a few hours of studying. Then, at eight o'clock, he'd head to the gym and I would go home.

The day passed quickly, the only ounce of excitement coming from a few lingering snowflakes: The first real snow still hadn't arrived. I hadn't expected to see Danny so soon, and was utterly surprised when he shouted my name across Jefferson square at four that afternoon. The girl I was walking with, my "lit buddy" Helen, turned brilliant scarlet as he approached.

"Hi," he said, slightly breathless from the run. "Fancy seeing you."

"Likewise," I laughed. "Small campus, I suppose."

Helen twitched, and I offered hasty introductions. "Are you doing anything now?"

"Studying," he shrugged, tilting his head towards his backpac. "Heading to the library."

I grinned at the coincidence: Either we were amazingly similar, or fate liked our friendship. Jordan was a little bit surprised when three of us, rather than the usual two, sat down at the library table. Again, hasty introductions.

"The beach Danny?"

"Yeah," he answered, sitting down beside Helen, pulling an impressively-large stack of papers out of his bag. She looked down at them with a curious expression. "Greek," he explained quickly. "Ancient trade routes."

Helen shrugged.

* * *

Jordan received his letter from the John Hopkins Medical School a week later. Unconditional acceptance – they didn't even ask for an interview. I wasn't shocked – he was utterly brilliant, and his family was both outrageously rich and well-known in the medical community.

"I think we should move in July."

That was a surprise.

"Move?" I sputtered.

"Yeah."

"But I applied for Grad School here."

"What about Baltimore?"

Baltimore was a long way away, and their program wasn't any good – "Columbia."

My father said that, if he wished one thing for me, it was independence: The ability to sustain myself without the help of a boyfriend or husband. Self reliance. Moving out-of-state, following a guy who I'd been seeing for six months, – and hadn't slept with – seemed a bit needy. When Jordan told me that coming was the smartest choice and that I'd never get anywhere with an English degree, things fell into place. We split that evening.

It wasn't a nice break-up: I stomped off campus boiling mad and crying, ignoring the curious looks and whispers from random passer-bys. And confused. I didn't know whether I should be offended or sad. The logical bit of me sighed; better to get out of _that_ sort of relationship before things got too far. But six months? – How had I not noticed those fundamentalist underpinnings? – Trophy wife? Tag-along? MRS Degree? Was that really what he was looking for?

It was late, and it was New York City – any sensible person would have gone straight home. I marched past my apartment, down Barrow Street, all the way to the Hudson River Park. It was empty. I paced back-and-forth in time with the lapping waves. Running would've been more productive, but my mind was far from being rational.

It was well past midnight when I returned home. Stacey, one of my roommates, was sitting at the kitchen table trying to read a book. She was in pyjamas, and her eyes had that half-glazed-due-to-extreme-fatigue look that all students have around exam time. It was still two weeks until term ended, but Stacey went to bed each night at eight and was up at four for rowwing practice.

"You're home?" she yawned.

"You didn't have to wait-up," I apologized, tossing my shoes into the closet. She shrugged and gave a sleepy smile.

"Jordan called. He was worried."

"Bastard."

"That bad?"

"It's over."

"I never liked the guy," she agreed. I knew that, if we got together again next week, she'd love him to death – that's what friends did. "I have some leftover pasta salad in the fridge, if you're hungry."

Jordan wasn't at the library the next night, though Danny was. I was still angry, and not really in a talking mood, though seeing a familiar face – besides the usual library crowd – wasn't too horrible. "Hey," he said, voice friendly. "How're you?"

"Brilliant," I said, dumping my books on the table. A few of the patrons looked up in annoyance. "You?"

He simply smiled, and went back to reading his papers. They were vellum, covered in neat writing and navy blue ink. I couldn't help peeking –

_ο__ὐδ__ὲ δ__ὴ ε__ἴ τις __ὕβριν περ__ὶ πα__ῖδας κα__ὶ γυνα__ῖκα φοβε__ῖται __ἢ φθ__όνον __ἤ τι τ__ῶν τοιο__ύτων, δειλ__ός __ἐστιν· ο__ὐδ__᾽ ε__ἰ θαρρε__ῖ μ__έλλων μαστιγο__ῦσθαι, __ἀνδρε__ῖος. _

_Nor is a man a coward if he fears insult to his wife and children or envy or anything of the kind; nor brave if he is confident when he is about to be flogged._

"That's not about trade routes," I commented – it was, as long as my translation was correct, Aristotle. Danny looked up in surprise.

"You can understand it?"

I nodded. "My mom was director of Greek and Roman Art at the MET. She taught us – me and my brother – Latin and Greek when we were little. And a bit of Old English."

"Really?"

"It's not exactly useful," I shrugged. "Not in real life – I use it all the time at school. And Ben and I speak it when we don't want people overhearing us." Maybe it was - useful, that is.

"That's pretty cool."

"Yeah."

I stuck my nose into _The Histories of English_; we didn't say much else until I left at half-past nine.


	4. On Irrationality

**On Irrationality**

Despite my rudeness, Danny was there the next evening, this time with Plato. Then the next night, with Socrates; and the next, with Theophrastes. We didn't talk much: Just the standard "Hey, how are you?" and "See you tomorrow." On the first day of exams he surprised me with hot chocolate; I brought cookies the next day. The day before my last exam he asked me out.

"Skating – and wandering around, looking at the Christmas displays?"

I was a bit shocked, though thankful that he had waited until exams were almost over. Part of my stomach still curled with distaste for Jordan – but that had been over four weeks ego, and I had stopped cursing men with the end of classes. And our coffee date-but-not-date, overlooking the ocean so long ago, had been nice … And I loved skating …

"I can't," I blushed.

"That's alright – " but he had, oh-so-obviously, deflated. "I didn't really expect you to, y'know, just go out with anyone."

_Anyone?_ – I was amazed that he was even interested. I wasn't ugly, but – at the same moment – wasn't anywhere close to being a supermodel: Tall, curvy – but not out-of-shape, oval face, brown eyes. I didn't follow fashion (shoulder pads? no thanks.) or wear make-up; school was for studying, the gym for sweating, and grocery stores for – well, groceries. I was too independent to put up with love-y-dove-y romantic stuff (public displays of affection? no thanks.). Jordan had been my longest relationship ever; the next had been Mark, in grade eight, at three days. I rationalized with psychology: Girls with high self-esteem tend not to flit between relationships. – I was just too happy with myself.

"No, it's not like that." The words tumbled out. "I'm flying to Seattle tomorrow evening after my exam – Christmas with my brother. I'll be back in early January, though."

"Yeah?" He lit up. "The rink will still be open."

Christmas was crazy: Ben's in-laws, Lucy's family – seventeen of them – was also visiting, most of them fawning over her pregnant belly and offering boxes of chocolates. They were an odd group. Lucy was a lot like her parents; – quiet, very polite – the rest were amazingly rowdy, and let their dogs run loose through the house. I helped out where I could, prepping breakfast in the morning and bringing the kids for walks in the afternoon – Lucy was in no state to host so many people, and Ben was the polar opposite of domestic. They left on Boxing Day; the silence was beyond welcome.

Lucy had the baby – a healthy girl, Alba – three days before I left for New York; Ben was still buzzing when he drove me to the airport. I was bouncing when I arrived at my apartment, and the mood infected all five of my roommates. The first week of term wasn't looking too horrible.

- Combine that with a Friday date. I met Danny, as usual, at the library, but instead of moving inside we headed for the Upper West Side and Central Park – as promised, skating. It was dark and snowing. Had it been a few weeks ago, the place would have been packed with patrons trying catch that elusive Christmas spirit. Now it was, more-or-less, empty, and most people complained about the cold.

Danny was a horrible skater: A bit like a five-year-old, ankles turning inwards and legs spread at odd angles. It was laughable and a bit cute – I had taken figure skating as a kid, and was working on axles when I quit at age twelve, when it started to get nasty-competitive. I had expected Danny, having suggested skating in the first place, to be a hockey player – or, at least in possession of some competency.

"Is this your first time?" I asked. He was grasping the sideboard with one white-knuckled hand, flailing with the other one.

"I've watched people," he said, eyes focussed on the ice. "It looked – easier?"

"Fix your posture first." Rule one. "Leaning forwards sets-off your centre of gravity. Up straight." He followed hesitantly, not letting go of the board. Standing tall, he was comfortably taller than my five-foot-eleven: Six-three, maybe six-four. "OK – now, come away from the boards, and we're going to fall down."

"What?"

"Well, you need to learn how to get up," I rationalized. "Ready?"

By the end of the night Danny was half-walking, half-stumbling across the rink. He was stable enough that I could chance offering my hand, though we couldn't work up much speed. It was more fun than I thought possible, though – as always – my feet were grateful to be out of the skates. Danny returned his pair, and I slung mine over my shoulders.

The rest of the date passed amazingly quickly – which means, I guess, that it was amazingly fun. We spent a lot of time wandering up-and-down the streets, gawking at designer clothes while sipping on hot drinks. Some of the designs were perfectly ridiculous: Bright jumpsuits, stirrup pants, neon paint splatters. I had noticed earlier that Danny violated all fashion trends – tonight was dark jeans and a sweater that matched his eyes. It flattered him in every way possible. I felt a bit like an accessory.

Like our first meeting, we talked non-stop – whatever came to mind was full game: Movies, hobbies, work, politics. He seemed to have dedicated his entire existence to reading and learning.

"I've had a lot of time," he laughed. "And there's not much else to do."

"No other girls?" – the dreaded question.

"None – " then he hesitated. "Well, one: But it was a thousand years ago – and the circumstances weren't favourable. I respected her choice; we settled into friendship. She told amazing stories."

"Back in England?"

"Hmm? – Oh. Venice."

We continued walked and window shopping, weaving our way past famous shops, eventually settling outside of Tiffany's. My mom had loved the movie: She'd watch it whenever possible; it wasn't my favourite. Still, it was fun to look at the charm bracelets and sparkling gems.

It was then, standing in front of an earring display, making guesses as to how much they cost, that the _first_ strange thing happened: A beautiful little girl with huge green eyes, no older than five or six, came running over and gave Danny's jacket a firm tug. He looked down at her with mixed surprise and happiness – as if running into an old friend in the most unexpected place.

"For the Lord," the girl said, bashfully presenting him with a perfect sunflower. Danny bent down to her level and accepted it graciously.

"And for the Lady."

This time it was a white lily: My favourite flower … except it was a breed that I had never encountered before – huge, perfect, snow-white blossoms, and a scent that completely encompassed the New York sidewalk. More importantly – the girl hadn't been holding the flower a moment ago. There'd only been the sunflower.

"Oh – wow," I breathed, not knowing what to do or say. I crouched down like Danny, and accepted the flower with a smile. Would we have to pay? "It's beautiful. Thank you."

She curtsied and scampered down the block to where an equally-beautiful woman was waiting. I watched as she made eye contact with Danny, gave an appreciative nod, and turned away holding the girl's hand.

"What was that all about?" I asked, standing up and linking my arm through his. "Are you a closet celebrity? Royalty?"

"They're – " he paused. I smiled and sniffed the flower.

"It's absolutely lovely."

We wandered for another hour, eventually ending up outside of my apartment building. Danny kissed my cheek and bid me goodnight, and hailed a taxi. I floated up the staircase, completely dazzled, and relayed my story to the gossip-hungry ears of my roommates.

The lily never needed water. Never lost its intoxicating scent. Never bruised. Never died.

* * *

Danny was, by every single definition, a gentleman: Opened doors and took my coat, walked curb-side, never cursed, never spit, never interrupted, always paid. I spent dates two through five trying to figure out his flaw – it wasn't an easy task. The man, by many accounts, was perfect: As if he'd had centuries to hammer-out any possible flaw. They started popping-up on date six.

1) No concept of mortality, and the tendency to walk into the street without checking for traffic

2) No identifiable cooking skills

3) Overprotectiveness – though, in an endearing way

- And, of course, the series of unusual events.

* * *

**Date Three: January 17th, 1986**

I'd never seen the boy before in my life – seven years old, with that mischievous smile all boys wear. He approached without introduction, and wrapped his two lanky arms around Danny in a massive bear hug. Danny looked slightly taken aback; the shop owner, an older woman who smelled like lilacs, looked positively horrified.

"What are you doing here?" the boy asked, looking up at Danny with large brown eyes. "You've never been like this before – what's going on?"

Danny gave a smile: The type that an older brother would give a younger sibling, except that there was no chance that the two were related in any shape or form – they looked and held themselves in completely different ways.

"Are you here on a date?" he asked, looking at me for the first time. He seemed to glow in the sunset. "Is this your – uh – girlfriend?"

"I am," Danny nodded. "Patrick, this is Allison. Allison, Patrick. I – uh – sponsor him at a summer camp."

"More than sponsor," Patrick said, puffing out his chest proudly. "He's claimed me. – And Lotte, Charlie, Evan, and Anna. We've got the coolest cabin in camp!"

"Claim?"

"Yeah – even though we aren't his real kids," Patrick babbled. "Brian _flipped_ when it happened! He's still stuck with the other rejects."

"Patrick," Danny said in a warning voice.

"Alright," the boy moped. "Unclaimed campers."

"Unclaimed?" Like, their parents had forgotten to pick them up when the session ended?

"My relations sponsor a summer camp," Danny explained quickly. "Everyone built a private cabin for their own family to use – but, I like to open mine up every so often to other kids. Not as much as Hermit – but there's no point in it being totally empty."

"And because we're _awesome_!"

"Totally awesome," Danny laughed. Patrick beamed.

Patrick babbled on and on about the camp – about his cabin-mates, and all the trouble they got into. Some of their pranks seemed frightening familiar to the ones I'd pulled in the past, while others were spoken in some form of camp code and completely indecipherable: "Pegasus," "centaur," "volcano climbing." It hit me part way through that Danny's family – or 'relations' – were rich enough to sponsor an entire children's camp _and_ build their own personal bunk houses.

We left the shop a half-hour later, after Patrick ran out of conversation topics and I had selected an antique brooch from a display cabinet. The shopkeeper rang my purchase through, her brown eyes not once leaving Danny, and mumbled an awe-filled "thanks." I left utterly bewildered.

"What was that all about?"

"Patrick's grandmother? She's raising him: Both of his parents died at sea when he was two."

"She seemed a bit surprised to see you."

"A bit," Danny shrugged. "We've never actually met before."

"Oh?"

* * *

**Date Four: January 23rd, 1986**

One of my classmates once said that Weather suffers from histrionic personality disorder: You never know what it's going to do next, but it's sure to grab your attention. On January 20th it surprised everyone by bouncing up above freezing, turning the streets into a slushy, rain-filled, duck paradise. It absolutely poured for three days; sometimes, so badly that the gutters overflowed and drain pipes backed-up. In many ways, snow was better.

I met Danny under the Washington Square Arch, umbrella up against the onslaught. The plan was to head to the MET: My godfather, Uncle Gill, was head of Medieval Art and had gotten us tickets to the gala opening of the Leonardo da Vinci exhibit. At the moment I'd rather be wrapping my hands around a hot coffee, though the show was – supposedly – fantastic. How could it not be? It was da Vinci.

The rain began to still, though the clouds didn't go away. Danny arrived a few moments later, smiling, holding two cups of steaming _something_ in his hands. "You look chilly." He kissed my cheek, and handed over a cup. I sniffed in the smell of dark chocolate, tried a taste, but it was still too hot to drink.

We caught the subway, and popped up a couple blocks from the MET. The "rainless patch" had followed us there: The trees were dripping, and the sidewalks were soaked, but there was nothing falling from the sky. It was a small blessing: Stacey had spent an hour pinning up my curls into a semi-Roman-esque style, and my dress wasn't exactly water-friendly. Danny, the lucky butt, had chosen dark jeans; I never understood how guys could attend formal functions _au casual_, while women had to dress to the nines.

"Just lucky, I guess," he shrugged.

The rain started seconds after we passed through the doors, bringing the "just lucky" count up to two. The MET had been closed to the public for the event: There was a lot of security mulling around, and lots of designer clothes and diamonds. I handed over my ticket, walked through the metal detector, and dropped my jacket off at the coat check. I recognized some faces from when my mom was working at the museum: Dr. Morales, Dr. Kolb, Dr. Read – Aunt Joan, Uncle Peter, and Uncle Max, respectively. You could spot the academics in the crowd. Socially awkward, faux-couture garb, using words that the socialites couldn't hope to understand.

"You're OK?" Danny bumped my shoulder gently. "Should we wander?"

Bits and pieces of the museum were open for viewing, though most people had clustered around the da Vinci's: It'd be empty in a few hours, when gossip and drink took over. I'd memorized the path up to the Greek and Roman Gallery years ago – we were the only ones there, except for a security guard lurking by the door. I felt at home.

"My mom's gallery –" Literally: _The Kersey Gallery_, dedicated to her and dad after the accident. I sat down on a marble bench that formed a square alongside Roman statues of Jupiter, Pluto, and Neptune. Stern gazes, thick beards, noble stance. They didn't look very friendly. I turned around to face a sculpture of a dancing woman.

Danny wandered around slowly, taking in each sculpture with a critical eye. He was at my eleven o'clock when he let out an excited "What?!" I got up and walked over; he was pointing excitedly at a terracotta kernos that dated from about 2300BC. "I haven't seen this … in ages!"

"Ages, hey?" I smiled. "It was a gift to the museum – when I was about eight."

"I saw it before then."

"Yeah?"

"It's an offering vase," he explained. "See all the platforms? Each one held a sacrifice. Normally a candle, or coin. Always at the entrance of a temple."

"Sort of like Holy Water," I reflected, thinking back to middle school religious studies, and a friend's Catholic wedding last summer.

"Yeah," Danny agreed. We walked through the rest of the exhibit together, finally settling on the dancing woman I had first looked at. She'd always been my favourite: In grade five, mom and I travelled to Europe because a wealthy French collector was liquidating their private collection. I had begged her to buy the woman. She told her boss that it was a unique piece, in that it showed a person _moving_ rather than posing. Standing there with Danny it seemed to take on a completely new degree of fluidity: The veil fluttered in an imaginary wind, and her arms and legs weaved seductively. I stared, unblinking –

I jumped when Danny placed his hand on my shoulder. The woman froze.

"I think it's time to go," he said, gently steering me away. I walked in a half-daze, mind reeling, casting one back look into the room –

The woman's stance, I swear, had changed – and the Neptune statue, too: Younger, eyes smiling.

* * *

**Date Seven: February 12th, 1986**

I'd never been inside of Danny's apartment before: Normally when we arranged to meet at his place he'd be waiting down with the doorman. He wasn't there when I arrived; the intercom buzzed twice before he answered.

"Hello?"

"Hey," I chattered. It was freezing outside, and bitterly cold in the apartment's lobby despite four walls, floor, and roof. "Are you ready?"

"Oh, jeez," he mumbled. "Sorry – I'm waiting for a parcel, and completely lost track of time. Would you like to come up? I'm in 705. Top floor."

The building, with its brick exterior, had been recently updated, though in a fashionably elegant way: Polished marble and wood, and a sleek minimalist design that accented the old architectural features. The elevator was large and dimly-lit; the button was cool to the touch. _Real glass_, I thought. I couldn't remember seeing anything other than plastic numbers.

The doors opened with a pleasant _ding!_ The hallway before me was long and wide, and devoid of all life. There was a lot of space between each door. Walking, I guessed that each suite was, probably, four times bigger than my apartment. The entire setting screamed luxury.

Sound from behind. I whizzed around to find myself nearly face-to-face with a middle-aged man dressed in a red courier's uniform, an envelope in hand. "Afternoon," he said with a nod. I stared and continued walking.

Suite 705 was the last one on the left, with a westward-facing view of the Hudson River. The courier stalked me to the door, whistling all the way, reaching in front of my nose for the knocker. Danny answered the door almost immediately.

"Hey," he said, smiling at me and glaring at the courier. "Great timing."

"Traffic, y'know," the man said.

"Traffic?" Danny cocked an eyebrow. "Never mind."

I peeked over Danny's shoulder as he signed for the package. His apartment was sleek and modern. It didn't like there was too many personal artefacts lying around – a painting above the fireplace mantle, a few books. It looked like a magazine photo shoot.

The courier handed over the envelope, tipped his hat, and walked off whistling; I gave Danny a bemused glance.

"I've worked with … him for a long time," he shrugged. "And, I'll tell you now, there was no traffic."

"Really?"

The envelope was made of a heavy parchment, and addressed in Ancient Greek; he tossed it across the room before I could read the writing. "Ready to go?" He had his coat in-hand.

The whistling stopped; I looked up. Both elevators were waiting at ground level. The courier had vanished into thin air.

**

* * *

Date Ten: February 21st, 1986**

I'd never been on a carriage ride before, simply due to the fact that only tourists (and brides) took the horses for a spin around Central Park. It was expensive and, besides, I didn't like horses anyways.

Danny loved horses – or, maybe not "love," as "love" + "horses" brings up too many images of fanatical girls and riding competitions. "Respected" is a better word, or "cared for." Whenever we walked by the park, he'd always be sure to pack sugar cubes to feed the animals with. He was, I imagined, a bit like Tolkein's elves: Able to connect on some level that I'd never be privy to. Sometimes it was cute, and sometimes – like when we were running late for a movie – it was annoying. The horses seemed to be able to sense his approach, and would fit if he didn't pay them any attention.

On the "evening" of our tenth outing – closer to two o'clock in the morning – Danny was walking me home when a noise erupted from an alleyway: A very horse-like whinny. Danny halted, and peered down with wide blue eyes.

"What – ?"

"I think we have an escapee," he said, eyes glinting mischievously. "Come on – "

Taking my hand, he led me down the dingy New York alley, apparently unbothered by the thought of burglars or mass-murderers lurking in the shadows. It was a bit risky: He _was_ a big guy, but – if faced by a single armed crook – things wouldn't go over very well. I thought about sunshine and daisies.

Waiting at the end of the alley was, as suspected, a horse: A great big grey beast, taller than me, – taller than Danny – eyes wide and rolling nervously. I waited twenty feet back; Danny approached, arm outstretched, making soft cooing noises in the back of his throat. It calmed on his approach.

"This is Roheryn," Danny said after a moment. "And he's a little bit lost."

"Lost?" I said, raising my eyebrows. "No kidding."

The horse snorted, as if laughing at my sarcasm. Danny clicked his tongue. "He's had a rather large adventure."

"Probably," or, definitely. A lone horse in the middle of New York City? – There'd have to be a pretty impressive story behind it. "Should I call the SPCA?"

"No, it's alright. We aren't too far from his home." I didn't ask how he knew that: Either he'd cracked, or there was some serious horse whispering going on. "Come put your hand on his side – he won't hurt you – and we're going to walk out together. OK?"

The horse was even bigger up-close, and our progression to the end of the alley took much longer than our trip in – the horse took several steps back whenever a car zoomed by. Eventually we reached the sidewalk, and started moving north. A few wandering drunks gave excited shrieks, which only freaked the animal out more.

"Where are we going?"

We were several blocks into our adventure. "The Central Park Equestrian Centre."

"That'll take us an hour to walk."

"Fresh air," he winked. "Thank goodness it's a Friday night." Thank goodness for sleep-in Saturdays.

A half-hour in a teenaged boy, probably seventeen or eighteen, came streaking down the sidewalk and skidded to a halt right in front of me. He was dressed in a simple T-shirt/jeans/baseball cap combo, with a pleasant face and honey-coloured skin. At first glance he was perfectly normal – but, why would a kid be running around New York City at 3AM? And in sub-zero temperatures without a coat? There was something weird about him: I couldn't place it. Odd posture, or positioning of the legs? A goat-like demeanour?

He was breathless and wide-eyed, and looked utterly shocked at seeing Danny. "Sir?" he panted. I noticed that he was carrying a horse's blanket.

"Good evening," Danny said.

"Sir," the boy repeated. He didn't look shocked: He looked terrified. "I can explain – "

"No need. You were running to the stables to fetch a blanket, and got separated."

"Yes, sir," the boy flushed.

Danny smiled understandably. "It's a large city."

"Yes, sir."

"I suggest planning ahead next time."

"Yes, sir."

Danny handed over the reins without question. My eyes bulged: How many people just _gave_ a multi-thousand-dollar animal to a complete stranger? "Try riding along the river next time. They like speaking with their relations."

The boy gave a final "Yes, sir," threw the blanket over the horse's back, leaped on, and rode off down the street. The horse seemed to get exponentially smaller as they moved farther away, to the point where it was the size of a bicycle. I shivered.

"That was weird."

"Marcus works at the stables," Danny explained. "He takes the horses out for rides every evening, after everyone goes home, so that they can get some exercise."

"Did the horse tell you this?"

"Yes." I stared at him; he laughed. "They're quite proficient conversationalists."

**

* * *

Date Eleven: February 24th, 1986**

When Beverly, one of my roommates, brought home a guy for dinner, it translated into a bite of Kraft Dinner and a speedy trip to the couch or, more often than not, the bedroom. That was Beverly, and her type of guy: She'd had more "friends" visit in the first month we'd lived together than I'd ever _want_ to have in a lifetime.

I had no qualms about inviting Danny over: We'd hardly progressed past holding hands and kissing cheeks, though, sometimes, he definitely had a spark that suggested something more. Admittedly, I felt it too – heck, given Danny's all-round-amazingness, I'm sure most males felt it. Both of us were too nervous; or, maybe not. I wasn't religious or anything, but had grown up thinking that _it_ was something special for a husband and wife – something so intimate that I'd never dream of doing it with anyone other than my soul mate. That probably made me the biggest hopeless romantic in New York, but – hey, that's life.

The buzzer rang at half-past seven; Danny materialized a few minutes later with flowers in one hand and a pecan pie in the other. It looked homemade – a welcome change in a house of frozen dinners. Three of my roommates, including Bev, gawked from the couch as he walked in and took off his runners. I grabbed a vase, filled it with water, and placed the flowers in it. They fell perfectly.

The girls scuttled off after a few minutes, feigning homework or exercise or a grocery shopping trip, leaving the apartment strangely quite and empty. "Well, that was inconspicuous," Danny laughed, breaking the mood. "They're – nice?"

"Nosey nit-twits," I corrected. We were both leaning up against the kitchen cupboards. The smell of dinner, my mom's butter chicken recipe, wafted throughout the apartment. "Gotta love them."

"Yeah?"

We made small talk for a while; closer to dinner time I moved to set the table. Danny insisted on helping me, asking for directions to the cutlery drawer and water pitcher. I pointed to cupboards, grinning whenever he opened up the door to the spices/baking/etc. cabinet by accident. I was in the process of grabbing a serving spoon when our hands touched; it was a burst of passion I'd never experienced before.

_Ok_, I rationalized. _Maybe he is the soul mate …_

His kisses were desperate, maybe even a little bit clumsy, hands clutching as if he was afraid I would vanish into thin air. And then, as quickly as we had lunged at each other, he was trying to push me away.

"What?" I gasped. I wanted more.

He shoved his hands into his pockets; outside, the clear day had turned stormy. He looked like a man about to head for the gallows. "I – "

I waited.

"I'm sorry," he breathed at last. "I – have so much to tell you. And, I don't want to do … _this_ until you're completely aware."

"You're married?" I blurted, feeling utterly miserable.

"What?" he gasped. "No – no, of course not."

My mind was racing: Surely he'd felt _that_ too - surely. Fetish? Bi? Cancer? Gay? Father? Criminal? Murderer? Pedophile? – the list went on.

"Can you tell me?" I asked.

He sighed and kissed my forehead, lingering next to my brow. "Not now."

**

* * *

Date Fourteen: March 16th, 1986**

The day, despite reaching a high of nine degrees, had seen some snow – a light dusting in the evening, enough to grant Central Park a semi-mystical glow.

I had taken responsibility for organizing this date: The plan was to wander around and then crash in a bookstore – _Remington's_, a few blocks west of the park, offered live music every Friday night. We were walking across Bow Bridge and the half-frozen waters of The Lake when _it _happened –

It happened so quickly that I didn't understand what occurred until well after events had transpired. A man, a _crazy_ man, came running up from behind, a bronze knife flashing, hacked at Danny's face, and tossed him over the bridge into the frigid water. He took off, as if hell hounds were on his tail, as I ran to the side screaming. There were no waves – no sign that _anything_ had hit the water, let a lone a full-grown man. It was as if the lake had absorbed him whole.

– Not completely ingested. Hours, or seconds, later Danny emerged at the shore without stirring up a ripple or ripping a hole in the thin ice. I gaped, already running down the bridge.

"How – jeez – what? – "

He was perfectly dry, despite being knee deep in water, and looking none-too-happy. The cut on his cheek, where the knife had nicked him, was oozing _something_. It wasn't blood.

"Your face?"

"Oh?" he reached up with one hand and gingerly touched the wound. His fingers came away covered in gold liquid, thicker than blood, sparkling in the evening sunlight. Maybe he was an android, or a clone – Made in Japan, for certain. I took out a handkerchief, but he didn't let me touch the wound.

"It's alright," he explained, accepting the tissue with a smile. "It'll burn you." Hydraulic fluids?

The tissue soaked up the liquid like a sponge, leaving his skin dry and perfectly smooth – the cut was gone. There wasn't even a scar.

"You aren't wet," I noted.

"Oh, yeah – I'm – good with water."

"Are you human?"

I'm not sure if he was expecting my bluntness, and it took a moment for him to gather the words. "I'm a being."

– No indication of _H. sapiens sapiens_. 'Being' was open to a lot of interpretation – and, by the looks of things, probably beyond my imagination. I didn't want to guess.

* * *

_A great big "THANK-YOU!" to everyone who has reviewed, or added this story to their favourites/alerts! It's great to know that you're enjoying it so much!_


	5. Robots

**Robots**

'Not wanting to guess' didn't go far. By the end of the week I had come up with a list of possibilities ranging from Time Traveller to Son of Midas. Nothing was satisfying – sure, Danny had his quirks, but were they enough to condemn him as an _alien_? And how could something _look_ and _act_ human yet not be? Some sort of para-human doppelganger? – Transformer spirits existed in almost every culture's folklore. In Ancient Greece, people used to greet strangers by asking: "Are you a god?"

Shakespeare's Sonnet 116 reads: "Let me not to the marriage of true minds / Admit impediments. Love is not love / Which alters when it alteration finds." I knew the poem by heart – three Shakespeare courses, plus a framed cross-stitch above my bed. The words resonated, though – at that moment – I didn't want to use the "L word." Only crazy people and couples heading for a quick divorce proclaim undying devotion after three months.

_He makes me happy_, I told myself instead.

It was true: Our "dates," sometimes as simple as making instant macaroni and watching B-grade movies, were the highlights of my life. I still did things, of course – it wasn't complete dedication: I attended class, worked at the bookstore, volunteered, exercised, and did homework. Sometimes, when feeling motivated, I cleaned the apartment. – But, even when high off of endorphins or cleaning agents, it didn't beat the feeling of being around _him_.

Term ended, and New York made its slow transition from winter to spring to summer. I received my acceptance letter from Columbia, for Masters of Arts in English Literature. Danny gave me the invitation in early May –

"I'm heading to Ireland for a few days in June."

"For research?" I asked. He hadn't mentioned any trip. "Or to visit?"

"Visit. My family – "

"Your android family?"

"Yeah," he said with a laugh. "We meet up twice a year – reunion. This summer it's being held in Ireland. Winter's always in – uh – New York. It's horribly boring." He sounded like he'd rather be eaten alive by sharks than attend.

"When are you leaving?"

"Mid-June. But – I was wondering if you'd like to come?"

Ireland? – Summer vacation? Of course: Forget the fact that I had no money, and that September would be Grad School. I hadn't left the continent since age twelve – and for a chance to meet the mysterious robot family? Of course.

Danny was a ridiculously nervous flyer. He sat at the window, knuckles white and eyes focussed on the Atlantic Ocean below. Landing in Heathrow, I half-expected him to announce that we'd be driving to Belfast; through some miracle, he managed to hold on for another hour.

A young woman and young man were waiting for us in arrivals. The man wore a cocky smile, one hand outstretched, offering a barf bag to Danny.

"This jerk," Danny grumbled, "Is Sam. And Shannon."

Sam was a year or two younger than me, with a boyish face, blonde hair, and startling sky-blue eyes; Shannon was a year or two older, elegant in a classical way, with large grey eyes. They both seemed familiar, though I couldn't place it – maybe, simply, their relation with Danny shone through. All three were unnaturally attractive, and seemed to glow in the dim arrivals area.

We grabbed our bags and headed to the car, Sam jumping into the driver's seat and Shannon offering a pillow. "You should sleep."

"Not tired," I mumbled, feeling every ounce of jetlag. It was 5AM in New York, and I had been up all night.

"It's a long drive, and the scenery doesn't start until outside the city," she encouraged. "We'll wake you up when it gets interesting."

I can't remember falling asleep, and don't know how long I was out for; some hours later, Danny was shaking my shoulder. The landscape around us was cut straight from a postcard: Rolling hills, ancient stone walls, and green, green, green.

"We're still an hour from Ballycastle," Danny smiled, brushing away one of my curls. "Are you OK? Hungry?"

"M'good." I was too tired to be hungry. "What time is it?"

"A bit past one."

Eight hours, at minimum, until I could go to bed. I stretched and sat up, trying to blink the sleep out of my eyes. "I'm so messed up."

"You're doing good," Shannon said. "It's a long trip."

Her accent was similar to Danny's: Oxford, or within the area. Ireland seemed like an odd place for a bunch of Brits to be meeting – especially in a village like Ballycastle. Danny had shrugged when I asked. "Two years ago it was Caňada Taura – Paraguay."

"Where's that?"

"Exactly."

Ballycastle was your picturesque tourist town, with most visitors coming for the nearby Giant's Causeway and pretty ocean postcards. Our lodging, which was located a block east from the marina, must have seen a lot of one- and two-night stays; the hostess seemed exceptionally excited when we checked-in.

"You're the Amharc family?"

"We are," Shannon said, opening up her wallet and passing over a credit card.

"Nine rooms?"

"Yes, thank-you."

"For five days?"

"Aye."

"Goodness! What a lovely family vacation. When I was younger, my mam would …"

I was directed to room six, which boasted a queen-sized bed and an ocean view. Danny was kind enough to give me a few minutes to unpack and settle before knocking on my door.

"Is everything OK?"

"OK?" I was in Ireland! "I have no idea which way's north."

"That way," he gestured towards the window. "It might take a day or two."

"Yeah."

"Want to go for a walk?" he suggested.

We spent a lot of time walking over those next few days: Sometimes alone, sometimes with Shannon or Sam. Other family members arrived gradually; most welcomed me with smiles, though a few glared or simply stared curiously. I blamed it on defective android parts, and didn't worry too much.

Weird things started happening – more and more people flooded in, dispersed across the town in various hostels and B&Bs, some individuals strangely familiar. Some strangely terrifying, though I couldn't say why. The bows and looks that I had come to associate with Danny multiplied, to the point where we could hardly walk down the sidewalk without being stopped by five or six random people. The only time strangers left us alone was during our evening swims – but, even then, there was always a small crowd gathered on the seashore.

Sam and Shannon seemed to have the same "groupie problem," though to a lesser degree, and laughed about it each night over dinner. They were the only "family" that I had contact with – for, supposedly, an Amharc Reunion, there wasn't a lot of interaction going on. I didn't completely mind, though was a bit startled by the dynamics. Danny wasn't enjoying himself: Between the adoring fans and his glaring relations (or, whom I assumed to be relations), I couldn't blame him. It may have been a vacation for me – a change of pace, for certain – but this was work for him.

On day three we made our escape: Waking up before dawn, stealing Sam's car keys, and driving east towards the Giant's Causeway. The sun was just rising as we arrived, and the landscape was completely empty. We walked down the path holding hands, wind whipping-up my hair. The stones, when we finally reached them, were utterly amazing – so perfectly placed that I couldn't imagine that they were the result of nature.

"Do you know the story?" I shook my head.

"Fionn mac Cumhail was a Giant living on the headlands. One day, as he's minding his own business, this Scottish Giant called Fingal starts to insult him from across the channel. Fionn gets pretty pissed, and lugs a chunk of earth across channel. It falls into the sea.

"Fingal's not too happy about this challenge, so he picks up a rock and tosses it, and shouts that Fionn's lucky that he isn't a strong swimmer, or he'd come over and kill him.

"So, by now Fionn's really mad, - giants are a bit like WWF wrestlers - and starts tossing huge chucks of rock down into the ocean to make a bridge. But, by the time he's finished, he's so tired that he sleeps for a week and has absolutely no energy left in him to throw a punch – so he comes up with a plan.

"He disguises himself as a baby and lies down in a cradle. Fingal arrives a while later, and asks Fionn's wife to tell him where Fionn is. The wife says that he's away and, playing oblivious, shows Fingal their 'baby.' Fingal, seeing this huge infant, freaks out and runs away. He bolts down the causeway so fast that he tore it to shreds, – so that only the ends remain – and spent the rest of his days hiding in Fingals' Cave, over on Staffa."

* * *

The bed and breakfast was oddly quiet the next morning, June 21st; the dining room empty, except for a French family. There was a note waiting for me at the desk.

_Morning, Sleeping Beauty!_

_The S's and I have been called to the meeting – didn't think you'd want to sit through hours and hours of mindless chatter. We should be back by evening. Sam's left the rental car, in case you want to get around; I suggest the surf school up the coast._

_See you tonight,_

_-D_

There'd been no mention of a meeting yesterday; I was a bit confused, though the thought of having the car to myself for the entire day wiped away any lasting resentment. It was already ten o'clock; too late for surf school – but a drive along the coast would be nice. See what sort of trouble I could get into …

I was on the way to the car when Euthalia stopped me: One of Danny's ("exceedingly distant") cousins, presumably here for the reunion – but, apparently, not important enough to be invited to the meeting. I'd met her twice before, and both times she'd been exceptionally cool. This time was – oddly different. She was almost friendly.

"Hey! You have a free day?"

"Well – yeah," I said quickly, nervously adjusting my purse. Euthalia didn't look at all like Danny, or even the S's: Earthy colouring, ruddy complexion, and immature persona. She wouldn't have been my first choice when choosing friends. "You? No meeting?"

"Not invited. I came for the parties. Do you have plans for the day?"

"Oh. Going for a drive. East, I think. Maybe take the ferry into Scotland for a few hours."

"East? Why not west? Into the headlands?"

She looked at me with huge brown eyes, a bit like a kitten. It was one of those expressions that said _I'm-too-polite-to-ask-but-it'd-be-really-great-if-you-changed-all-your-plans-and-did-what-I-want. _Ten minutes later we were driving west down the A2. The friendly demeanour quickly morphed into "curious socialite."

"So, are you and Danny – close?"

I nearly choked: Talk about being blunt.

"I'll take that as a no, then," she inferred. I blushed furiously. The rest of the trip was an onslaught of questions; I was close to stopping the car when she said: "We're here. Pull over."

I followed directions, parked the car, and nearly threw myself out the door. I couldn't see any houses, though the landscape looked familiar: We weren't too far from the Giant's Causeway. The surroundings fields were bright green, the grass almost as high as my waist. Euthalia started to march towards the coast; I thought she was going for a pee, but when she didn't stop after a good hundred meters, I chased after.

"Where are we going?" – I wondered if she was an axe murdered – "Euthalia! What's going on?"

She raised her left hand, and gestured for me to follow. The grass was still wet with morning dew; my jeans were soaked through and heavy by the time I reached the cliffs. It was low tide, and Euthalia was climbing down towards the beach.

"Hurry up." It was the first time she'd spoken.

"No way." Climbing had never been my strong point: Judging the cliff's height and grip availability, I'd probably fall forty feet and break my neck. Besides, the axe murderer theory was starting to look plausible. Isolated coast, no other human life, psychotic girl who – by her questions – was more than a little bit possessive of Danny, and didn't like me at all.

She moved south along the beach; I followed her above, eyes darting between my rough path and her body, trying to figure out what was going on. It was a good strategy, until she ducked underneath a natural archway and vanished. Gone, completely.

– and then a familiar voice reached my ears. Low, pleasantly rumbling, but too far off to be able to interpret. But, there were no people in easy walking distance – and sound couldn't travel that far? Or, did the coves act as echo chambers? – The next one over?

I took off at a trot, partly motivated by the spontaneously-disappearing Euthalia. (Ducking into a cave for said axe? Or a more-stylish Tommy gun?) The voices grew louder as I approached the cove. (– Jeez, was the secret "family" meeting mafia-related, and Euthalia my hit woman?) The air buzzed with energy.

I felt my face drop rounding the cliff, curiosity transforming to fear, and then shock. Danny wasn't there – something that, vaguely, resembled him – sixty feet tall and terrifying – looking down with those same blue eyes – surrounded by equally-massive bodies – blindingly bright – some part of me said that I should've burned up at first glance – run.

Laughter followed me, booming across the landscape, the earth shaking in response. It made my body move faster, racing across the headlands like a terrified animal. The small, rational part of my mind commented that this had all been a very cruel joke, or a very real-looking hologram, but that – either way – it was a good thing that I had started running. Moving in a full-out sprint, lungs ready to collapse ...

They didn't have a chance: Already off-balance, a slight pitch in elevation sent me flying forwards into the hard earth, and then tumbling sideways down a small boulder. My head struck the rock with a painful _crack._

_OK, now I have to transfer into Fine Arts_, I joked groggily, eyes half-focused on a stunned gull. _Oh, crap_.

My last conscious thought was that the cold stone felt very, very good on my head.

* * *

_Thanks again for all of the reviews/favourites/alerts! Next chapter will be up Sunday the 24th!_


	6. He's Crazy

**He's Crazy**

I heard running footsteps and shouting voices. Strong hands lifted me up; I wanted to protest that the cool stone was fine (thank-you) but, for whatever reason, the words wouldn't form. The hands repositioned me gently, and pressed something cool against my forehead. Silence was replaced with quiet chatter; I reluctantly opened my eyes. Sam, with his boyish smile, was perched behind me.

"There. That feels better?"

The sun was absolutely blinding and the wind was too loud: The world's worst hang-over-but-not, courtesy of the Giant's Causeway. Grimacing, I reached up to probe at my scalp and found a proud goose egg and trickle of scarlet blood.

"You were really big," I mumbled.

Sam clucked sympathetically. "A bit of a shock, I guess."

Understatement of the year. His lack of denial was the most frightening thing: More than the possibility that I was insane. Madness you could, theoretically, cure with therapy and drugs. Finding out that metaphysical _giants_ exist dramatically alters one's worldview.

I heard shuffling from my left, and painfully turned my head to check for the source. Shannon was standing by my boulder/attacker, wringing her hands and looking tearful. Danny was next to her, arms crossed and an anxious expression on his face.

Danny.

All at once, a million images filled my head and I remembered why I had my goose egg: My stomach churned, and I shut my eyes and concentrated on keeping breakfast in my stomach. Hallucinations: Why couldn't it have been hallucinations?

"Could," I chanced – stumbling. "Could Danny and I be alone, please?"

"Of course," Sam said, standing up. "I'll go get you something for the pain – and try to calm Zu-Zu down."

I heard footsteps and quiet discussion. Danny came over to take Sam's place. I struggled to sit up.

"No – please," he objected, trying to push me down. "You should lie down."

"I don't want to lie down." With some help, I managed to get upright. The cold cloth on my forehead dropped into my lap. I noted that, even though it was ice cold, it wasn't wet.

We sat looking at each other, faces mirroring each other's misery.

"I'm – so sorry," Danny's voice, when he finally spoke, was hoarse. I missed its low chuckle. "I didn't intend for you to find out this way."

"Find out what?" I stated calmly. "That you're a closet giant?" My mind raked through the images, painfully trying to make sense of what I had seen: Twelve gigantic figures, vaguely human but most certainly not. He had been water. "You're – " what word? " – a god?"

Part of me was praying that I was in a nightmare; the larger portion was waiting for confirmation. This was more than horse-whispering.

He nodded. My stomach curled again.

"Tell me what this means," I said, forcing a steady breath, remembering my mother's teaching – _In the nose, out the mouth_. "Who are you?"

He hesitated. "Danny?" No – not good enough. "My name – the most popular one – is Poseidon. Ruler of seas, earthquakes, and horses."

"A Greek God?"

"Not – Greek specifically. Endill for the Norse; Welsh Llŷr; Amimitl – my favourite's Nootaikok. Embodied element."

Embodied element: Once, in high school, a teacher said "You're probably drinking dinosaur piss." Water was eternal – vast – deadly. It had nothing in common with Danny.

"I am so sorry!" he repeated, shaking his head and staring out the cliff. "I shouldn't have let things progress – not this far, at least. It was – silly. Thinking of a normal relationship."

His eyes were distant: It gave me a moment to examine him – twenty-five years old, jeans and polo shirt, swimmer's physique, and movie-star-handsome looks. He was someone you'd double-take on the sidewalk: Then you'd blush, giggle into a friend's ear, and continue walking. A third glance would turn him into a curiosity. And the fourth – "an enigma wrapped in a mystery wrapped in a taco." Eyes that echoed the ocean.

"Poseidon," I tried out, recruiting my mother's Ancient Greek lessons. He looked over, face utterly desolate. "It suits you – better than Danny, at least."

He gave a small smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "How's your head?"

"I – I could really use a hug," I blurted. Forget the head: I was miserable, he was miserable, and we both could use some comfort. "Could – ?"

He looked stunned, as though he'd been expecting me to bolt down the cliff again, but nodded and crab-walked to my side. Then he enfolded me in his arms, and buried his face in my hair, stroking it gently with one of his hands. He choked, "I'm sorry – I'm so, so sorry."

Crying was a horrible idea: The slightest movement made my head throb harder. I settled on silent tears, clinging to Poseidon as hard as I possibly could, breathing in his ocean-breeze scent. We stayed there for a long time, until Sam returned with a polite cough. I sat back and wiped my cheeks.

"Here's a soothing solution for you, Allison," he said, looking terribly apologetic. "It'll help with your headache, and the bumps."

I eyed the glass he held, and wondered if it would settle my crumbling stomach – or if it tasted like cherry. "Thank you," I said, taking it and sipping cautiously. It wasn't cherry; more of a sweet herb mixture. My headache dulled immediately.

"Apollo," Sam said formally, sticking out his hand. I stored the name for future processing.

"I've ruined your meeting, haven't I?"

"Meeting?" Apollo asked, face blank.

"Twelve mythological beings, summer solstice," I muttered. "I'm not completely stupid."

"I didn't mean – " he said quickly. "No. Sorry. It's fine. They've continued."

"Oh." I glanced at Poseidon, who had returned to staring at the surf. "You should probably go."

"No way," he said firmly. "I'm getting you home first. Someone will fill me in later – there's not any urgent business."

Apollo didn't seem too impressed, but left – vanished into the air – with a nod. We left a few minutes later, Poseidon nearly carrying me, both of us quiet and subdued, eventually buckling me into the car and taking the driver's seat. "Are you all right?" he asked after a half-hour, just as the village came into sight.

"I what way?" I joked, not feeling at all funny. "Physically? Mentally? Emotionally?"

"Well – is your headache worse?"

"No."

"Alright."

Mrs. Leary didn't ask any questions as we stumbled into the hostel, though – by her amused expression – she must have interpreted the scene as being something entirely different from what it was. "As for the rest of me?" I continued, not complaining as he deposited me on the squeaky bed, "I don't know. I guess – the world's not what I thought it was. I don't know."

Poseidon was studying his feet; I wondered where his clothes had come from, as he most certainly had not been dressed while in 'gargantum form.' "Tell me what you want. I'll leave right now and not come back, if that's what you want me to do. – Or a day, or a month, or a year to think. Just don't lead me on." He looked up, a sickly smile on his face. "Zeus is omnipotent – but I'm not naïve."

I was horrified. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Look," he said quietly, "the smart thing to do would be to go back home, and forget about me."

I laughed then sobered, a lump steadily growing in my throat and a million questions floating around my brain. At the forefront: Why? "You can give me some time."

"OK. How long?"

"A week, I guess," I ventured. The flight for New York left tomorrow evening: Seven days would be enough time to mope around my apartment. "I don't know how long it takes to decide something like this. I've never done it before."

"Of course. I'll – be in touch with you a week from today."

He walked towards the window, as if he was going to jump out. "Poseidon …"

"Hmm?"

God: What could you say?

"I still love you."

"That's good," he said hoarsely. "Because I love you, too."

And suddenly Poseidon was gone, with only a puddle on the floor to indicate that he had ever been there.

* * *

My dreams that night were riddled with giants and mythological creatures, and seagulls that could talk. Waking up wasn't much better: Apollo's magical tincture had worn-off, and my entire body – not just my head – ached horribly. The gods - all of them - had left overnight. The bus ride from the village to Dublin was hot and jostling; the airport was stuffy; when the plane finally lifted off it felt that my eyeballs were going to explode – and then there was the ten-ton weight crushing my heart. My one comfort was a double-dose of painkillers, courtesy of the woman sitting next to me. The taxi ride from the airport to my front door passed in a blur.

Another cry would have done wonders, and I was just about to crawl into bed when a knock sounded at my door. I struggled into an old NYU sweatshirt, making it to the door in-between the third and fourth round of knocking. The three faces waiting on the other side were a pleasant surprise: Ben, Lucy, and Alba.

"Guys! What? – " I said, shock momentarily masking my mood. "What are you doing here? – Come in!"

I grabbed onto baby Alba, letting Ben and Lucy struggle with the bags. "Summer break," Ben reminded me politely. "Remember?"

"Oh – " but you couldn't curse in front of infants.

"We've been trying to call you for six days."

"I've been away."

"Where?"

"Away," I said again. Ben, ever over-protective, pouted; Lucy caught-on faster, and ordered the bags into my room.

"What happened?" she said, gently pushing me towards the couch. "Danny – ? Where's your tea?"

"Left of the sink. Kettle's on the stove," I mumbled, bouncing Alba on my knee. She was huge now: Seven months old, with huge green eyes and curly red hair. "We're taking a break."

"Oh dear."

I muffled a sob as Ben entered the room, eyebrow raised in concern. "Ally and Danny are taking a break," Lucy explained from the kitchen

"What? But he's crazy for you."

"You need a little space now and then," said Lucy. "Have you had anything to eat today?"

She made sandwiches as the kettle boiled, frowning a bit at my post-vacation supplies: Bread and a bit of mouldy cheese, and frozen cold-cuts. The tea and food helped a bit.

"We're heading to Navani tomorrow morning," Ben said. Even now I couldn't believe that he was going. "Are you still coming?"

"I'm not sure – " an ocean-side cottage and an unsteady relationship with _the_ ocean god probably didn't bode well.

Despite hesitation, we left my apartment the next morning, early enough to beat morning traffic, arriving at Navani shortly before ten. I lingered outside with Alba as Ben gave Lucy the tour, bouncing the baby on my hip and breathing in the sea air. Way out, far across the Atlantic, was Europe: Sometimes pop bottles from Portugal, Spain, and Morocco washed up on the beach. I wondered if Poseidon was aware: Was he this thing that ruled the ocean, the same way a monarch ruled a country, or _was_ he the ocean? If deities existed, did ghosts and vampires? Saints? Souls? _The_ God?

"It's fantastic," Ben said from behind me, looking at Navani with a smile. "You've done an amazing job."

"Your turn to do the repairs, then," I laughed. Technically, Navani – and all its upkeep – was mine; I wouldn't dream of banning Ben over something as small as maintenance. "Tell you what? Let me keep Alba for the week, and we'll be even."

"All week?"

"Until she starts to smell," I winked. "And you have to do the cooking."

I spent the next two days in the one-room community library, Alba chewing on books, reading every possible tidbit on Greek myth. The collection wasn't anywhere close to being complete – largely limited to out-of-print grade school history texts – though provided a clear enough picture. Some legends echoed amazingly true, and I could find my stubborn, kind, and proud Danny lurking within ancient myth. Some I dismissed as pure fantasy. It was downright impossible to overlook the lengthy list of mistresses, rape, bestiality, and offspring:

_With: Aethra - Offspring: Theseus_

_ Alope - Hippothoon_

_ Amphitrite - Rhode, Triton, Benthesikyme_

_ Amymone - Nauplius_

_ Astypalaea - Ancaeus, Eurpylos_

– The "A" section – limited to the Greek and Roman era. What else had transpired over the past two thousand years, and would I – someday in the future – be reduced to just another name on that list?

_ With: Allison - Offspring: Korina, Panayiotis, Fred_

After draining the library's resources, I turned to walking: Alba and I went miles each day, weaving up-and-down the highway, or exploring trails that I wasn't allowed on as a child. Most of the time my mind drifted from big question to huge question, totally incapable of producing even a slightly-satisfying answer. On some level, it was like a colour-blind man trying to figure out what "blue" looked like.

"Blue looks like the sky."

"But the sky is red."

Some things about this new world made my head hurt.

* * *

_Happy End of Final Exams, to all my fellow Uni students!!! Next chapter will be up Sunday the 1st!_


	7. Metaphysical

**Metaphysical**

The days were slowly fading away into history and, despite telling Poseidon that a week would be enough time to sort things out, it was steadily becoming apparent that I hadn't even scratched the surface of this altered reality. I started to pace and pick my nails, and talked to oblivious little Alba for hours each day hoping that her baby smiles (or farts) would, somehow, grant an epiphany. On Wednesday night, two days before our meeting, Ben finally snapped.

"Go," he shouted, throwing my running shoes outside. "Ten kilometres there, and ten back. Sprint. If you can still move, do it again."

My walks with Alba had centred on the roads and woods: At this point in time, hard concrete seemed a lot safer than soft sand. But, all those trips had been in daylight. Montauk, being so close to New York, had its fair share of gigantic summer houses – and gigantic parties. There were relatively few police officers, long stretches of winding road, and some fine local breweries. Tonight, with the stars sparkling, the beach was the smartest choice.

A few neighbours were clustered around bonfires, and the Conan house was blasting Michael Jackson's latest album. Moving south, farther away from the village, the houses thinned out and the beach adopted a more-wild state of being. I collapsed on the warm sand a half-hour later.

The stars, up in the perfectly cloudless sky, were what I missed the most in New York. Ben received a telescope for his eighth birthday, and – after that – we spent every possible summer evening outside watching meteors and making up our own constellations. There was something comforting in their consistency; the knowledge that the stars I was presently looking at were, to some degree, the same ones my parents saw – and the first hominids, hundreds of thousands of years ago.

"In the beginning, there was chaos," a voice beside me said. Shannon had materialized silently, lounging across the sand in a simple white dress. "Then out of the void appeared Erebus, the unknowable place where death dwells, and Night. All else was empty, silent, endless, darkness."

"Which one are you?" And add another question to the list: How do you speak with a god without getting yourself turned into a turtle?

"Athena."

"Why are you here?"

"Curiosity," she replied honestly. "Hope. And, it's a nice night."

I waited in silence, eyes darting between constellations, wondering if she knew the true stories behind each one. If she was Athena – which, I strongly suspected was the truth – she should know all things.

"I have my own mortal," she sighed after a long span of silence. "Frederick Chase. Frederick for his father, but it gets too confusing, so he calls himself Chase. He's a bit older than you."

Everything was relative: "A bit older than you" could, easily, make him ninety-six.

"Is he nice?" I asked.

"Amazing."

"Cute?"

"Of course," she giggled. I could see some Shannon in her, though wasn't certain if that was who Athena really was or simply a mask for my own comfort. "He's a scholar – have you heard from Poseidon?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry," she apologized quickly. "I know you haven't. He's been brooding for the past week, utterly miserable – the surfers are enjoying it."

I could see how our stories were related – why she was here. If there was no hope for Poseidon and I ... "I don't understand how he can be interested at all," I admitted. The whole happening had been a serious blow to the ego. "I mean – you guys are – you're _gods_! You're amazing – never mind that you don't really exist. And you're eternal, and powerful – and you come down, and fall in love with _us_, out of all things. Violent, hairless monkeys, who hardly last eighty years. What's the attraction?"

"Fun?"

"We're toys?" I demanded.

"No – sorry," she apologized again. "I mean – for some of the lesser gods, yes. The ones more closely linked to instinct: Nymphs and the like."

"Oh." It didn't answer my question.

"We aren't perfect, not like your Christian God. Every one of us has a personality. Poseidon's – lonely, maybe. He's been looking for his mate for a long time: Though, I don't think he ever expected it to be mortal. It took a lot of guts for him to admit it.

"Did you know he saved your life once?" she said, changing the subject. "When you were four: That day you fell in the river."

I sat up: I had never forgotten that day – I still had nightmares of it. "What?"

"The little boy."

My guardian angel – who had found me in the water, guided my path around logs and rocks, and pulled me onto a sandy beach. He sat beside me all night, telling stories and jokes, letting me know that mom and dad were very worried and looking for me. When the old man and dog arrived, he had simply vanished.

"I don't know much about Poseidon's nature," Athena admitted, eyes still focussed on the stars. "He's one of the big three: We're completely different. But, I think, when he saved you that day he got a good taste and fell in love. You wouldn't be here right now otherwise - he doesn't normally go around saving people."

What did I want? – I had known Poseidon for about eight months; eight amazingly happy months. The past week had been the longest spent apart since we started dating in January. I missed – his smell. Smile. The way that he wiggled his eyebrows when I was in a bad mood. His sailor-rough hands.

"Why me?"

"Why not?" Athena shrugged.

* * *

Late Thursday night, well into Friday morning, I snuck out of Navani.

It was an utterly childish move, especially since it was my house: Going to bed fully clothed, staying wide awake, counting the minutes until Ben and Lucy were asleep. I don't know whether it was necessary, – didn't know what I was doing, really – but enjoyed the adrenaline rush nonetheless. The buzz grew stronger as I walked towards the water.

There was nothing abnormal about the surf: Wavy, inanimate. I didn't know how close to stand, or what to shout, or if some magical words had to be spoken. A long time of awkward silence passed; apparently, these things just didn't happen. Looking around, I grabbed a handful of stones and started pitching them into the ocean.

"Hey!"

- No response.

"Poseidon! Please!"

It was, technically, a week: Friday morning. Seven days. Maybe he was sleeping – waiting for a more-acceptable daylight hour, and would appear suddenly at the breakfast table to scare the wits out of Ben and Lucy.

I threw the remainder of the rocks into the waves, and dropped down onto the sand. If anything, I expected him to appear like that first meeting: Walking down the beach, necklace in hand, goofy smile. Instead, some twenty minutes later, the sea began to bubble and a massive head with ocean-blue eyes grew out of the water. It took every ounce of control not to run away as the rest of his body popped out and crouched on the sand some thirty feet to my left. The usual jeans and polo were long gone, replaced with armour and a massive trident taller than Navani. I gaped.

"How are you doing, Ally?" he asked politely. As if nothing - abnormal - was going on.

It took a minute to find my voice. "Uh – Fine. Better. It's a beautiful night."

"Thank Zeus for that."

"Oh. Of course. How've you been?" I tried again.

Poseidon shrugged. "Fine."

This was going nowhere. "I'm glad you came."

"It's not exactly a hardship. It's a nice beach."

That was a slap in the face if there ever had been one. Forget the fact that I was as tall as his little finger. "You know, I didn't realize I needed to tiptoe on eggshells all evening," I snapped, feeling my face turn red. "I thought we were on good speaking turns."

He sighed. "Ally, just say what you're going to say so that we can get on with life."

"What?"

He glared at me, which was not a pleasant experience: Maybe Bryon had been inspired by the sight when he wrote _Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean – roll! / Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain_. "You're an intelligent mortal: You know that it'd never work. You've read stories of the cursed relationships. So can you just – pull the plug?"

My jaw dropped. No wonder he'd been behaving so strangely: So human. Waiting for the axe to fall – maybe the height was a defence mechanism? I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"You are the most pessimistic android I've ever met," I shouted. "Get off your high horse."

"You were tossing rocks at me," he grumbled.

"As if they hurt – and you never told me _how_ to get hold of you." He scowled, but I continued. "I've been reading."

"What?"

"I've been reading," I repeated slowly. Maybe my voice wasn't strong enough to reach his ears. "Lots. You're a jerk in the stories."

"What?"

"Fifty-seven reported children?" I stated. "Rape, drownings, war."

He exhaled, clearly in shock, eyes drifting up to the sky in a silent prayer. "There's a balance."

"You've killed people."

"People die all the time," he corrected. "Some drown – some fall. That's life."

My stomach twisted. "Rape?"

"The Greeks had a thing for drama – the Romans even worse." It was my turn to blink. "And, think of what would happen if – back then – you said something like 'I'm Poseidon's chosen one.' Money. Riches. – Your own place in history. Some people claim us for parents or lovers. Sometimes we claim children: Our favourite mortals. We protect them – help them out." My mind flashed to the grinning Patrick.

"So – "

"The Greeks like drama," he repeated. "No offspring, though plenty of adopted. What else, Ally?"

I chewed on my lip; his face had adopted a slightly-amused expression. "Can – can you shrink, please?" Of all the questions I could ask ...

It was one of those wonderful metaphysical things: With a smirk, he was reduced to a blob of water that gradually twisted into the polo-clad mini-me. "You never have to buy clothes," I noted, walking towards him. He laughed, moving towards me. "How – "

"Magic," he winked. "What else, Ally?"

God – what else? I had planned an amazing speech – the words vanished. What happened when I got old? What if we had children? What were the rules? What would his family think of me? Where would we do Christmas? – Would celebrating Christmas with a pagan god be completely sacrilege? Could I tell Ben? Where would we live? Where would he work? Did he sleep? – I'd never seen it. – Would he put up with my cooking?

We were standing six feet apart. He crossed that in an instant, half-flesh and half-water, lips colliding with mine. The kiss reminded me of the first one between us, with desperate undercurrents. When I stopped for a breath, he tried to speak.

"If you change your mind, I would understand – "

"I'm sure. Just don't wait on it – " and I pressed my lips to his again.

The Greeks weren't the only ones who discussed the god's philandering, and I half-expected to be whisked away to some supernatural five-start hotel. When he stopped, face flushed and eyes dancing, I was more than confused.

"I – "

"It wouldn't be fair," he said quickly, hands reaching up to stroke away my hair. "It's – there's – "

"_The arrows of gods rarely miss_," I quoted with frustration. One of the children's books had used the term liberally. "The pill?"

"Doesn't work like that," he groaned. "Your brother would kill me."

Those were the last words I had expected; the strain of the evening playing with my nerves, I burst into laughter across Poseidon's shoulder.

_

* * *

_

_Apologies for the delay on this chapter! I just finished a move to another province, and my external got lost amongst kitchen spices and cosmetics! Next chapter will be up Sunday, May 8th._


	8. Moving InOn

**Moving In/On**

My favourite moment: Watching Ben's and Lucy's expressions the next morning, when they stumbled down the stairs to see Poseidon sitting at the kitchen table. They had only ever spoken on the phone, though I don't think there was any doubt over _who_ this strange man was.

"Hi," he said, mouth full of Cheerio's. Our attempts at pancakes hadn't gone over well. "How're you?"

Ben's eyebrows went arching up and his mouth dropped open; Lucy, sheepish smile on her face, grabbed a clean bowl and joined us at the table. "You must be Danny," she said, pouring cereal. "I'm Lucy – and this is Alba."

"Nice to meet you."

"When did you arrive?"

"Late," he said seamlessly. "Bus problems."

"So, you've patched things up?"

"I think so," I said. We had hardly been able to stop touching each other – hands, feet, smiles. I was already suppressing the past week.

"Patched?" Ben coughed, regaining his voice and joining us at the table. "Like – " Lucy hit his arm.

We were supposed to be heading back to New York that afternoon. Poseidon, who had summoned his usual canvas bag, spent most of the morning staring at Alba as Lucy and I raced around packing and cleaning. I think it was the first time he had seen an infant – or, at least one up-close. Nervousness gradually gave way to comfort, and his low rumbling voice filled Navani with a set of untitled songs. I could pick-up fragments of Greek: "_Κάμω ε ε ε…_ / _Νάνι μού το νάνι νάνι_ .._._"

Ben drove; Poseidon - the tallest of us five - sat co-pilot, and Lucy, Alba, and I took the back seats of the Bug. It took an hour for the awkward Ben/Poseidon clash to dissipate, but they were talking and joking fervently by the time we arrived at Poseidon's apartment building. "I approve," Ben said when we were a block away.

Lucy and Ben left two days later; I went to work, and phoned Poseidon during break – no response, which wasn't too surprising. I imagined that a god had more important things to do than answer lunch-hour phone calls. "Hey – how are you? – No, just wanted to say 'hi!'"

He appeared in my apartment that night just as I was sitting down to dinner, refusing a dish but accepting a glass of water. We decided on several things that evening: That I would move from my dingy apartment to his flat, that I would attend graduate school in September, and that we – if things worked out in a year from now – would make things official. My mind was still bursting with questions, but had started to accept the fact that there were things – dozens of things – that I would never know, understand, or even be able to perceive.

"What will you do?"

"Do?"

"You aren't really a student, are you?" I rephrased. "What do you do all day?"

"No," he admitted. "Largely? I'm in the water – "

"I'd never suspect."

He chuckled. "I'm sure."

I gave notice, and on July 31st three movers arrived at my apartment, bundling up the few possessions that actually belonged to me: Pictures, papers, and photo albums. The truck looked pitifully empty as it pulled away, and the dozen-or-so boxes were nearly lost in Poseidon's sweeping apartment.

I had never been in it before: Just that single glance from the doorway several months prior. It was as grand as I imagined, with dark oak floors, tall windows, and a simple minimalist design: Nothing gaudy. My room was next to his, with a huge bed and gigantic patio that looked out across Manhattan and our private pool; the bathroom/walk-in closet was larger than my old bedroom, stocked with designer clothing and sparkling gems. I wondered, for an instant, how he paid for all this, but then thought of pirates and sunken treasure.

"Do you like it?" He had materialized again, perfectly silent, at the foot of my bed. I gave a startled jump. "We could get new furniture – or paint – or move – "

"It's fine," I said. "It's beautiful – thank-you."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Alright." He talked extremely fast when nervous. "I don't really know what you need. The kitchen has food – I think. A lady helped me out. And there's stuff in the bathroom – "

I was laughing. "I can go grocery shopping if I need anything – I've taken care of myself for the past four years."

"I know," he defended. "But – you're a queen. You should have a palace."

"Have you seen my old apartment?"

"Well – " and he blushed again. "You'll let me know if you need anything?"

"I promise."

I kept my job at Gallowglass Books, and spent each day comparing my life to works of fiction; each night, I returned to an empty house and started making dinner: Enough for two, just in case. Poseidon would arrive just past six o'clock, always in armour. He'd hang his trident on the wall, – I half-expected him to shout "Honey! I'm home!" – walk across the room, and collapse on the couch as armour melting into cotton and jeans. Despite obvious exhaustion he'd listen with patience as I ranted about the uneventful human activities that filled my day. Sometimes he nibbled off my plate; pasta was a favourite dish. Every night I fell asleep next to him, drifting-off part way through a conversation. I'd wake up the next morning in my own bed, alone, with the air smelling like ocean.

My Masters started in September, under the watchful eye of Dr. Montague. He was fluent in Old English, Latin, Greek, and ancient Japanese, and loved to tease me (and my research) with long-extinct idioms. I spent hours each day in the library, pouring over old texts, hoping to do the impossible and complete my thesis – _Greek Myth Retold in Sermonic Literature _– by July. The choice seemed laughable and predictable; in January, when preparing my graduate applications, it was an extremely sophisticated idea.

Poseidon visited my office for the first time in mid-October, looking totally out-of-place amongst the paperwork and books: Too big, almost like his true form was trying to break-out. "Hey," he said, having adopted the Danny-like swagger and slang. At home the accent doubled and any hint of modern language disappeared. "I was hoping we could go for lunch."

My stomach chose that precise moment to grumble: It was already two o'clock, and I hadn't had anything since breakfast. "What were you thinking?" I was already grabbing my coat and office keys. "I would _love_ something greasy."

"Hot dog?"

"Tofu dog," I proposed. It wouldn't be that hard to find a hot dog stall that offered both veggie and carnivore options - something for each of us, Poseidon being the rabbit: This was New York, after all, and vegetarianism was the latest craze. "Lafayette Street?"

I locked my office door and turned the homemade sign to _Out for Lunch!_, grabbed Poseidon's hand, and started down the hall. It always amazed me how warm he could be, and how solid, when just last night he had completely dissolved in the swimming pool. We had nearly reached the staircase when Dr. Montague appeared in the corridor, slightly pale and very distracted.

"Going out?" he asked, sending Poseidon a curious look.

"Lunch," I explained. "Doctor, this is my fiancé, Danny." I was an oddity in the department: "Queerness" and "Open Relationships" were big things in the world of English Lit. I avoided parties like the plague.

"Danny?" he said, shaking hands. He hardly reached my shoulders, and only breezed Poseidon's armpits. "Allison talks non-stop about you. Says your fluent."

"A bit," Poseidon chuckled. "Enough to get by." I felt him squeeze my hand.

"We've – " I started.

"Must get back to work," Montague cut-in, gesturing at the stack of papers he was carrying. "I'm sorry – perhaps we'll meet again?"

I waited until we had dropped three levels before speaking. "What was that about?"

"Nothing."

"Bull," I insisted. He was still shaky around the edges, flickering gold, and it was making my eyes hurt.

He sighed, sending out a breeze and causing the corridor to wail. A few passing colleagues looked towards the windows, but there were all tightly sealed. "I think Dr. Montague knows Voodoo," he admitted.

"Voodoo?" I knew that Dr. Montague came from the Caribbean, but there was absolutely nothing creepy about him: White, middle-aged, highly educated, and quite prudish – even by my standards. "That's – " the word 'ridiculous' played on my lips, but I was looking at a god blurring in-and-out of focus.

"He's not dangerous," Poseidon continued, grasping my hand a bit tighter. "Most aren't. But he's rigged the building with different charms to stop anything – uh – supernatural from coming in. Quite powerful, really. I'm actually quite impressed."

Hexes and enchantments. I guess it explained why the English department was the only place on campus without its own ghost story. "Then how – ?"

"Don't doubt my abilities," he winked. We were at the building's threshold; the moment we stepped out the flicking stopped.

"Are there – _things_ everywhere?"

"Things?"

"For lack of a better word?" I pouted, teeth rattling slightly. October had already turned cold; I was thankful for Poseidon's radiating warmth as we dashed across Morningside Park. "I don't even know what exists and what doesn't any more."

"Aliens."

"What?"

"No – I'm joking," he laughed. "Aliens aren't real - well, they aren't within my knowledge, anyways. See those kids over there?"

I followed his gaze across the square, where a group of students – first years, probably – stood clustered in a circle.

"And the man playing the guitar?"

– sitting at a bench.

"The woman leading that class?"

– short, stocky, dressed like your stereotypical elementary school teacher.

"And –"

"Ok, I've got it." He chuckled at my frustration. "How come they aren't, like, grovelling?"

"What?"

"Well, you're the all-powerful sea god," I reminded him. "Poseidon – Horse Lord! Earth Shaker!"

The ground, right on cue, gave a slight tremor and I burst into giggles. A few people looked around in shock, eyes wide; I laughed a little bit more.

* * *

Dr. Montague never really looked at me the same way again, but I did my best to ignore the shift in our relationship. October gradually shifted into November, November to December, and the streets of New York filled up with Christmas displays and shoppers.

Poseidon was the one to suggest a tree, one Saturday morning in early December while I sat at the kitchen table trying to decipher _Paradise Lost_.

"A Christmas tree," he said to my astonished expression. "Conifer, decorated with lights and little glass balls. I thought you mortals loved those things."

"Yeah … ?"

"Can we get one?"

A group of Canadians had set up a lot several blocks from our apartment, and that night – after it was dark – we spent an hour searching for the perfect tree. Poseidon, despite putting on an all-knowing face this morning, had never shopped for a tree before. He spent an hour moping over a tiny Charlie Brown.

"It'll look ridiculous," I protested. More than ridiculous: The apartment's huge, open floor plan would just swallow it up.

"I know," he responded. "But – "

"You're such a softie," I said, eyes drifting over to a tall fir. Two weeks ago he had relayed a list of his claimed children: Human babies cast into the sea, talking horses, and one-eyed giants. The misfits of the mythological and human worlds, rejected by their own parents.

The rest of the evening was spent threading popcorn and making paper chains, watching Rankin/Bass movies – Poseidon doing most of the watching. I worked with a smile, noting that this was the most time we had spent with each other in months: Normally, we were limited to a few hours each evening and the occasional date.

"You should invite your family over for Christmas dinner," I suggested between movies.

"Sorry?"

"Your family," I said, not knowing what else to call them. "Food. Movies. Music. – I thought you immortals liked to party."

"I – " he stumbled. "Well. I'm going to be seeing them soon."

"What?"

"The winter solstice," he elaborated, moving towards the TV to switch around the videocassettes. "We meet twice a year. Summer's more like a party – winter's when the serious business gets done."

"December twenty-first?"

"Yeah," he confirmed. "It'll last until the twenty-fourth."

"They'll probably be needing a break after all that," I shrugged, slightly bothered by the fact that he hadn't mentioned the meeting until now. "Can you send an invitation at least?"

"I will," he pledged, though his tone clearly said '_RSVP? Like that will ever happen_.' The vast majority of myths described disputes between the gods; I suspected that many of them were true. Everyone gathered around our dining room table might not be a fantastic idea – and our ceilings weren't even remotely close to being sixty feet high.

"Where's the meeting?" I asked, trying to change subject. I was also horribly curious.

"Olympus," he said quickly. "It's actually pretty boring: We've all gotten quite good at our jobs – the world hasn't ended yet. But all the minor figures – even the nymphs – attend, and they always have something to complain about."

"Well, it'll give me time to do some Christmas shopping," I grinned. "And some baking – do you have a Christmas list?"

"List?"

"Gifts?" I prompted, scolding myself at the same time: What would a sea god want – or need? "Just – ideas. I have the Sears Wish Book around, if you'd like."

"Do you have something for Alba?" His eyes sparkled a bit when I said 'no.' "Can I?"

"A present from Uncle Danny?" I grinned: The Christmas letter from Lucy and Ben had been addressed '_To Aunty Ally and Uncle Danny_,' and Alba – now twelve months – could manage "Da" and "Ah" when we spoke to her on the phone. Poseidon had been mightily depressed when Ben announced that their holiday would be spent with Lucy's parents in San Francisco.

Two weeks later he departed with armour and trident, leaving the apartment oddly quiet and still. The university closed the next day, and my office moved to the kitchen table. It was difficult to get anything done: Cookies were more interesting, and the TV offered a constant stream of Christmas specials. I met a girlfriend for lunch, and wandered around Tiffany's watching couples gawk at diamond rings far beyond their budget range. On December 23rd the sky darkened and the waves crashed up against the sea wall, flooding Battery Park. When I arrived home from shopping on the afternoon of 24th, Poseidon was pacing across the floor like a caged animal.

"Can we go tackle those Christmas Eve crowds?" he asked. There was a cookie in each hand: It must have been a horrible few days.

It was surprising, to say the least, when a knock sounded at our door the next morning at nine. I heard it the first time – registered its importance the second – and, at the third, shot out of bed and went skidding across the floor cursing mornings, neighbours, and sleepless gods who were never around to answer the door when you needed them. Apollo, standing at the threshold, received the full force of my glare.

"What _is_ going on?" I snapped.

"Christmas," he said hesitantly, passing me a gold-wrapped gift. "Posey invited us."

I was reduced to one of Dr. Montague's Old English curses – _scitan! _– and invited him in with an apology. "Poseidon was in such a horrible mood yesterday," I explained, trying to beat down my curls, thankful that I was wearing a pair of flannel plaid PJs. "I didn't expect anybody to come – I don't even have food! – or gifts!"

"Food?" he asked, looking around the apartment with open mouth and wide eyes. "This is what these look like?"

"What?"

"Flats," he explained, moving over to the couch. "From the inside. The last time I was in one was eighteen thirty-four." I should have been shocked at the number. "Go wash-up, Ally. I'll be fine."

Poseidon was seated next to Apollo when I emerged a half-hour later, pink from the hot water and without any sort of make-up, but fully clothed. The two stopped their quiet conversation, looking up with somewhat-guilty half grins. There was a bowl of potato chips on the coffee table; I didn't ask where they came from. "Breakfast?"

The fridge was positively stuffed with food when I opened it – again, I didn't ask, though smiled gratefully. Several recipe cards were placed conspicuously on the counter, their ingredients matching the food in the fridge perfectly. "Hint?" I asked.

As it turned out, Apollo wasn't a half-bad cook: He chopped and diced and sautéed like a pro, reading each recipe and carefully measuring out ingredients; I improvised beside him. Poseidon lounged on the couch, eyes closed, humming along with whichever carol was playing on the radio. Every so often there would be a knock at the door, and a god or two would come strolling into the apartment with lavishly-wrapped gifts and offerings of food. A honey-coloured beer seemed to be the big hit, though Apollo cautioned me against even a single taste.

"Ambrosia," he explained. "Booze – but not for mortals. You'll spontaneously combust."

The last to arrive, just past four, was Athena and a man I didn't recognize: In his late twenties, dark brown hair, toting wine bottles, and – if the nervous twitch was any indication – totally in the deep end. "Athena," I shouted, running over to the door before anyone else could intervene. "Hi! – And Chase?"

"Hello," he mumbled, passing over a bottle of wine. "Allison?"

"Ally," I corrected, taking his coat and placing it in the strangely-empty closet. The gods' jackets and shoes had mysteriously vanished when they entered the apartment. "Thank-you – let me grab a corkscrew. Would you like a glass?" Athena mouthed a silent '_Thanks'_ as I steered Chase towards the kitchen. - No matter your background, kitchens were always a safe zone.

Excluding Poseidon and Chase, I found myself hosting sixteen gods and seventeen minor spirits, all of them rowdy and quite impressed by Poseidon's Violent Femmes album. Dinner, largely thanks to Apollo, looked like something from a Greek restaurant; a dozen different types of olives decked the table. The meal ended in conversation, talk gave way to dancing, and by eight o'clock my stress had vanished and – dare I admit? – I was actually having fun.

Fun, I learned, could be stolen away very quickly.

The sky was clear and the night cold; the bolt of lightening colliding with my patio was completely unexpected, and I felt myself scream – really, truly scream – as every window shattered. All noise stopped and every body fell perfectly still as the bronze-armoured form of Zeus marched into my apartment.

I blinked and Poseidon was standing in front of me, his hideous Christmas sweater replaced with armour and trident in hand. To my left, Athena was grasping a spear and a helmet covered her pretty face; Chase, standing behind, looked ready to pass-out. New York's constant buzz faded away and, for the first time since meeting the "real Poseidon," I was terrified for my own physical well-being.

"A party," Zeus said, voice booming. Poseidon didn't relax his battle-ready pose; the little irrational part of my mind prayed that, if something were to happen, the wood floors wouldn't be damaged too badly.

"You received an invitation," Poseidon snapped, twitching a bit.

Zeus rolled his eyes; I decided that I didn't like him – he emanated arrogance, paranoia, and pride. Athena looked at him with equal distaste. "I believed that this would not take place," he said, taking a step further into my home. "I made it clear."

"You said you would not attend."

"I did," he snorted, as if it was reason enough for cancelling the event. His eyes, the colour of rain, met mine; I felt a nervous whimper rise through my throat, and struggled to keep it inaudible. It seemed to amuse him. "Philandering with mortals – you've been neglecting your duties, Posey."

Apollo had been calling Poseidon 'Posey' all evening, always with a smile; for Athena, it was "Uncle Poe" – and once, with a wink, she let "Aunty Al" slip out. Zeus's 'Poesy' was spoken with all the revulsion of a pissed off five-year-old.

They switched over to Ancient Greek, sounds spilling out so quickly that I was lucky to catch one word in twenty. Tension rose, reaching its climax with a boom of thunder, a second flash of lightening, and Zeus's form disappearing into the night. The next moment I was half-blind and very deaf, being cradled in Poseidon's arms, the focus of twenty pairs of eyes. Without a word everyone except for Apollo, Athena, and Chase vanished – Athena and Chase heading for the door, and Apollo fading away after producing a softly-steaming herb tincture.

"For your ears and eyes – and nerves," he explained with a bow. I looked to Poseidon, who gave a nod, and downed it in one great gulp. "You be careful, Posey."

Poseidon nodded. "_Ἀνεῤῥίφθω κύβος_."

The die has been cast.

* * *

_Yay! Next chapter will be up Sunday, May 16th, 2010. Many thanks to everyone who reviews/favourites - you make my day!_

_andy - You are amazing!!! I have a couple stories that I follow closely, and it's always great when a new chapter is uploaded on a bad day! I'm SO honoured that you think that of this story - and that you've been following it so closely!_

_jolinar-rosha - Ha ha, tell me about it! :-) I haven't touched the books at all ... During final exams I had the audio books playing, but that was background noise and I - truthfully - can't remember very much of it. Glad to hear that you're enjoying this story so much, and hope that you liked this chapter!_


	9. Continuation

**Continuation**

I faintly remember Poseidon carrying me from the couch to bed, tucking me under the covers, and wrapping his arms around me as if they alone could offer protection from whatever horrors Zeus has threatened. It was the first night that he stayed with me; I woke up the next morning cuddled into his chest.

"Did you sleep?"

"No," he answered simply.

After last night's festivities the house should have reeked of alcohol, but all I caught was his clean ocean scent. My bedroom window, broken into a million shards, had been repaired and returned to its frame; I was pretty sure that the food leftovers had, somehow, found their way to the fridge. Instead of worrying, I squeezed Poseidon's hands as hard as I possibly could, not wanting to talk or move or even breathe. We stayed that way for a long time.

Eventually, when a clock tolled one, he mumbled something about business and slid out of bed: Previous experience said he'd be gone for an hour or two, doing whatever it was sea gods do – the daily maintenance. I performed my own rituals, first showering and then eating breakfast, finally crashing on the couch and switching on the TV. The Christmas tree, with its homemade ornaments, probably needed water, but I was too lazy to get up. All the god's gifts, in their gleaming gold and silk, were tucked safely underneath.

"It was a fun party."

Poseidon was standing behind me in sweatpants and a grubby NYU sweatshirt. His hair was slightly wet, as though he had just gotten out of a shower; it was the first time, other then when washing dishes, that I had seen any part of his body even slightly damp.

"Are we going to talk?" I asked, pulling up my feet so he could sit beside me.

"Zeus doesn't like what's going on," he blurted out. I hadn't expected it to be so easy. "He's – " with a frustrated gesture, two steaming cups of tea materialized on the coffee table. " – he's the cut-and-run type: Had more affairs than I would ever want to know about. Doesn't like commitment."

Translation: Zeus didn't like gods committing to mortals – certainly not as publicly as Poseidon was.

"What he'd say?"

"He's bloody pissed."

"Got that," I reached for the mug closest to me. "Are _you_ going to be OK?"

He laughed, snorting hot tea out his nose. "Zeus can smite me all he wants; I'll just return to my natural state: Great big semi-conscious body of water. – Presents?"

The gods had been generous: Bottle upon bottle of ambrosia for Poseidon, and various non-alcoholic tidbits for me – a golden pen and telescope, thick books, and various pieces of jewellery. Ben and Lucy had sent out board games; various neighbours and friends boxes of chocolates. My few gifts to Poseidon, humbly wrapped in brown paper, were close to the bottom. He unwrapped them with all the enthusiasm of a child.

Buying for a god wasn't an easy task, so – for the most part – I didn't: A plastic button emblazoned with a trident, to attach to his vanishing canvas backpack. A macaroni picture frame spray-painted gold and filled with a picture of us at Navani. A handful of records. And last: A homemade leather cuff, braided together in some semi-stylish manner, that I had made at a clinic on campus. I was a lit student, not an artist, but he put it on anyways, as if it were his most precious possession.

My gift was a small blue box with a white ribbon, pulled out of thin air and placed in my hand with a smile. I stared.

"You aren't going to open it?"

"I don't want to ruin it," I admitted. "This – "

"Open it," he urged.

Inside the box was a simple solitaire engagement ring, yellow gold sparkling in the afternoon sunlight, set in the Etoile style. "You've been introducing me as your fiancé to everyone," he explained, grinning from ear to ear. "Though – I'm not sure if a Christian ceremony would be possible – "

"City Hall is fine," I sputtered, watching him move the ring from the box to my left hand.

"Not sure that'll work either, given that I don't exist – "

We were still living by the "no sex" rule, but – even then – I was (ahem) unable to call Ben until late that night. Lucy's mom, Sandra, answered the phone with an Italian-esque "Pronto?"

Ben, laughter in his voice, asked about the games first. "They're lovely," I joked back – they were, obviously, a hint that we weren't getting enough action: My parents bought board games and had family nights whenever their relationship hit a bump. "Did you get ours?"

"Alba's wearing the necklace as we speak," he responded. I kept glancing down at my ring. "It's beautiful – and the painting's amazing. Did Mrs. Jamison do it?"

"Yeah," I answered. Mrs. Jamison was a retired-teacher-turned-artist, who had a cabin a few houses down from Navani; I had commissioned a Montauk scene in September.

I gushed over my ring, and somehow managed getting transferred to Lucy – you didn't talk settings with your brother. She was amazingly patient, asking the usual onslaught of "You're getting married!" questions: When was the date? How'd he propose? Dress? Flowers?

"You're happy?" Was her final question. In high school, and throughout most of my undergrad, the question had stumped me. Now, I answered a very honest "Yes."

I hung up the phone and rejoined Poseidon on the couch, holding up my hand and grinning like a fool. "It's beautiful."

"How's you're brother?" he said, wrapping one arm around my shoulders.

"Fine – though, I didn't know we sent Alba a necklace."

Poseidon turned pink at the ears. I giggled – big secret out. "It's a charm," he explained. "Not much – but, it'll let all the nastier water creatures know not to touch her."

"Another unofficial claiming?" – nod – "We need a baby," I confirmed, grabbing his hand. "You'd make a fantastic dad."

He kissed my neck lightly, lips smiling. "You need to finish school first."

"Finish school? PhDs take years."

"Masters, then."

Things changed steadily over the next few months: The Christmas tree came down, Valentines Dinner, an Easter Egg Hunt in Central Park. He spent most nights sleeping in my bed – watching, I suspect, because I'd never actually seen him asleep. Through a function of our proximity, or maybe I was just looking harder, the mist that cloaked his world slowly began to lift. Beasts, it seemed were literally everywhere – the woman who sold me my first bridal magazine, the post office worker, even a few of my fellow graduate students. Even Poseidon: The trident, which adorned the wall when were were home, went everywhere with him, strapped to his back like a sword. I couldn't believe I had never seen it before.

We settled on an early-July wedding in Montauk: A small affair, with only the essential parties involved. Lucy and Ben, a few of my closest acquaintances, a spattering of gods, and, to my great disbelief, Hera – Goddess of marriage, and Zeus's wife.

"You don't marry one of the Big Three without me being there," she said with a wink, climbing out of a sports car looking like a movie star. "Posey asked me to do the ceremony. It won't be anything legal in the State of New York – sorry – but it'll be official in our books."

Athena proved to be my biggest resource in the days before the wedding, offering bits and pieces of advice, and congratulating me on successfully defending my thesis two weeks prior. We sat together on the beach, tying tiny bouquet of flowers, she answering my every possible question with blunt honesty.

"Most humans are pregnant for three months," she said. "Supposedly, not that pleasant – it's not really enough time for your body to adjust. We really aren't that sure about your case, though."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Uncle Poe's one of the big three – and your kid will be his first. Strange things always happen with first-borns – I "came" - in some senses - from Zeus, after all," she wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Illumination – knowledge – coming from light. I wouldn't be surprised if your baby was a big player."

"What?" I had heard of demigods before: Powerful, but definitely not 'big players.'

"He'd be my generation – we'd be cousins," she elaborated. "The god of lakes and rivers, maybe – or healing. Maybe humanity, given the heritage. Though, he'll probably flounder around like any other demigod for the first fifty years – takes a while to grow. Have you thought of names?"

Everyone was certain that a baby would be around by Christmas: Eileithyia, goddess of childbirth, who I had never even met before, sent a crib by way of Hermes. (Hermes, in humour, had gifted his-and-hers Hermes watches.) I was comfortable with the thought of being a parent – and with Poseidon as a father. But, then again: I was nowhere close to being self-sufficient. I was twenty-three years old, with a Masters in English literature. What if he got bored, and left? Was it fair to be bringing a child into this world if he had no chance of a normal life? – I tripled-up on birth control. A few more months would be nice.

There wasn't a cloud in the brilliant sky as we stood in front our small company of friends. The ceremony was short and simple: Vows, blessings, and toasts. For the sake of our mortal acquaintances, Hera had arranged for a table stuffed with official-looking documents; drawing closer, the mist vanished and the documents merged into a single piece of parchment that, rather plainly, said '_Sign here, and smile._' Anything for the show.

Toasts and sentiment behind us, the party began in earnest. The afternoon was warm but not stifling, and people wandered from table to table, speaking with perfect strangers, or strolling across the beach. There was no sign of Zeus; I had half-expected him to strike me down with a bolt of lightning. But, Christmas had been so long ago – maybe his fear had faded. Maybe he had forgotten me. Besides: It was my wedding day, and I refused to be haunted by such thoughts.

The sun set; we left shortly after Apollo arrived.

* * *

In late July, a week before my period was supposed to start, I woke up. Two hours later, in hospital, I learned that I had miscarried.

"I didn't even know I was pregnant," I admitted truthfully – two weeks into marriage, no bump, no cravings or pain or funny stuff.

"That doesn't surprise me," the doctor responded. "It was still an embryo. Actually, I'm a little bit shocked that you felt anything at all. Can we contact your husband?"

No – what could I say? _Go toss rocks in the ocean, throw a fit, and wait for the giant_. That was a one-way trip to the psych ward. "He's on a business trip in Greece."

He didn't arrive home until that evening, walking through the front door holding our mail: "You've got a letter from – hey?"

"I was pregnant," I sputtered. Much of the day had been spent in a state of disbelief; the remainder watching Oprah and eating ice cream. "I lost the baby."

The next week wasn't easy on either of us: Poseidon hardly left my side, except for an hour or two each morning, seemingly as depressed as I was. Our trip to my doctor didn't help matters much: "Your hormone levels are off the charts."

The pill. Not knowing I was pregnant, I hadn't stopped taking it. After conception – after the all the supernatural stuff was over – my body had completely rejected the embryo. Besides bear hugs and holding hands, nearly two weeks passed before Poseidon touched me.

Life, of course, doesn't stop – "and the seas rise, and the seas fall." My letter from 'Hey' turned out to be Harvard – the lines read something like a fantasy novel.

_Dear Miss Kersy,_

_I am delighted to inform you that the Harvard School of Graduate Studies has voted to accept your application to doctoral studies within the Department of English. Following an old Harvard tradition, a certificate of admission is enclosed. Please accept my personal congratulations for your outstanding achievements …_

We didn't hesitate: In a week, we had found a house – an _entire_ house! – in walking distance of campus, squished between a medical doctor and history professor. I formally met my supervisor and found my office; Poseidon, amazingly, got a job with the Department of Biology as a lecturer. I wasn't sure how it happened – he had never attended school before, and had never held a job. No credentials. No references.

"Biology 389 and 462," he proclaimed, scattering papers all around the floor. We still didn't have any furniture: The mid-century modern stuff had all remained in our New York home, being completely inappropriate for our 1800s brick home. He had offered to conjure period pieces, but the thought of painting walls and shopping in thrift stores had a certain appeal. It was the stuff normal couples did.

"How'd you get it?"

"The Department Head's a Water Horse," he shrugged – I should have suspected some inside connections. "And, they were looking for someone, anyways. Who better to lecture on marine biology?"

"Have you ever taught before?"

"It can't be that hard. None of the other professors have teacher training."

"But the other professors are gits," I replied honestly. I had become disenchanted with university in second year: Professors who cared more about fame than positive contributions to society, and hated students more than hangnails. "You're too nice."

"Says the drowning sailor."

"Says the wife," I said with a kiss.

We didn't touch on the topic of babies until mid-September, when I realized I was pregnant again. This time, there were no pills involved and I had developed a severe watermelon craving. Surfers reported the best conditions in a decade. Doing the math, we probably conceived in mid-August: A few weeks after the miscarriage. If Athena's predictions were correct, I'd be bulging by October. To everyone's surprise, only the slightest bump had developed by November. It was easy to hide, thank goodness, because I didn't really know what to say to my colleagues – I couldn't announce that I was pregnant, not knowing how long it would last for. Eyebrows would arch if I was still carrying after ten months.

November was preparing the nursery, painting it in periwinkle blues and beiges; in December Ben and Lucy visited; January was looking up names. I'd like to say that it was an active, interesting time of life but, to be honest, it was rather dull. Poseidon doted, I got fat, the baby kicked – and was eventually born on August 18th after a year's worth of pregnancy.

I was exhausted and more than a little bit sore the morning after, and in severe need of a shower. Poseidon had arrived moments after the hospital opened up for visitors, heading straight for the nursery and snatching up our blue-wrapped baby – either Laurence or Colin. The paternal attraction had been immediate and strong, to the point where I hardly had the chance to hold him over the past eighteen hours.

"He's got your eyes," I smiled, wishing I had a camera: Dad and baby at the window. "And your hair."

"And you nose," he laughed. "Maybe we'll get lucky, and he'll out-grow it."

I was getting ready to throw a pillow over, knowing all too well that he'd effortlessly dodge it, when a fourth person entered my hospital room. It'd been nearly two years since the Christmas party, and he wasn't dressed in bronze, but I'd recognize Zeus's arrogant walk anywhere.

"Brother," he greeted, completely ignoring me. "A child?"

Not even Zeus's foul mood could dampen Poseidon. "My son," he said proudly. "Colin."

"Laurence," I protested from the bed. "Thank-you for coming, Zeus."

Again, he ignored me. "Now that the whore's been had, will you return to your throne?"

"What?"

"You've become practically human," he continued, sneering slightly as he looked around. The hospital room was bright and clean; I couldn't find the source of his contempt. "The oceans suffer."

"You have no knowledge of their tending."

I got out of bed, grabbed the baby, and sat back down again just as the earth quivered. An epic staring match broke out, accompanied by darkening skies and more shakes. Poseidon grew darker, stronger, and taller, eyes flashing. _So this_, a little voice whispered, _is what the legends mean by 'pissed-off Gods' – or is this just 'mildly annoyed?'_

"You will return. – This embarrassing fad will stop."

Zeus walked out the door calmly, looking like any other visitor. Poseidon remained, face masked by fury, hands clenched. "I'd rip him – "

"Go calm down," I suggested. "We'll work it out later."

Easier said than done: Zeus had, in a very real sense, just threatened my life – number one on the "To Smite" list, bumped up from my earlier position at number fourteen or fifteen.

I turned on the TV to CNN, and listened with rapt attention as reporters gave breaking-news accounts of freak tidal waves and hurricanes that, over the past hour, had appeared in the dozens. Part of me felt a bit guilty at being at the centre of so much chaos; part of me still was incapable of seeing my husband as this greater being – as if everything I had seen was some amazingly-talented parlour trick. The ocean was the ocean: A great big, nonsentient _thing_ that tasted like salt and supplied fishermen with their daily catch.

And the baby? Where did he fit into all this? – Zeus didn't seem too concerned with him; just another demigod. And, surely, he wouldn't obliterate his "relationship" with Poseidon over a half-human. But Athena: She'd been so certain of the baby's role. Part of her generation? He'd have to survive those fifty or sixty years first.

"What are you god of?" I asked. He looked back at me, utterly clueless, big eyes trying to focus. They were almost exactly the same as Poseidon's – that stormy ocean blue – and contained some sort of intelligence that I couldn't place. It certainly didn't belong to a Laurence or a Colin; and, if he wound up being immortal, you couldn't have "Colin, god of ____" alongside names like Hesperus and Palici.

Poseidon returned in the evening with pizza and two jewellery boxes. Each one held a delicate gold chain and trident-shaped charm, almost exactly the same as the one Alba wore. "I didn't want to do this," he said, nonetheless helping me put on the necklace. "It's a claim – like property. And it's almost always for children. But, it'll let me know if you're safe – if you don't mind." So, he _was_ worried.

It was pretty, had a comfortable weight, and was warm to the touch. "Didn't you try to pawn one off the day we met?" I asked. He flushed.

"My intentions – "

"Yeah, yeah," I grumbled, opening up the pizza box. It was half meat-lovers and half-veggie. I grabbed the biggest, greasiest, meatiest chunk I could find. Hospital food, officially, was horrible. "I was thinking."

"Hmm – ?"

"Maybe we should choose a more-traditional name?"

"Agamemnon?" he suggested. I suspected it was one of the longer names he could think of. "Aristodemos? Neoptolemus?"

"Something I'll be able to spell?"

"Orion? – Atlas? Perseus?"

I knew what happened to Atlas, and everyone would think that he'd been named for the book. "What happened to Orion?"

"A great hunter, but was killed by a giant scorpion."

"Ouch?"

"The Greeks loved drama," he shrugged. "Perseus completed his quest and lived happily with his wife. The pop legend says his father was Zeus, but that's more drama coming through. He was claimed."

"Perseus?" I tried. "Percy and Posey?"

Poseidon scowled at his nickname, though didn't call the baby 'Colin' again.

* * *

_Thanks again for all the reviews/favourites/alerts, and I hope that you enjoyed this chappie! Next one will be up on Sunday, May 22nd._


	10. Burning Up

**Burning Up**

Babies are not born cute or innocent: Not even deities. They're squishy and cry at the very worst times, as if they have this sixth sense that can tell when you're heading to the toilet or reaching for a trashy Hollywood gossip magazine. Thankfully, given that it was August, Poseidon was at my side for the first two weeks; in mid-September Ben's work transferred him to Boston and Lucy was more than willing to help when Poseidon was lecturing.

At Poseidon's request Ben, Lucy, and Alba lived with us until they received possession of their new home in October. Though we absolutely loved having them, three ignorant mortals mucking around for two weeks wasn't the easiest thing: Zeus's claim of being "practically human" was a long way off. Every night, after the house was asleep, Poseidon would sneak out and spend hours tweaking the currents and tides. On top of that, Percy was showing definite signs that he was _not_ normal, and had the habit of attracting attention from all types of curious (thankfully, harmless) beings. A Kappa, who masked itself in the guise of a large Newfoundlander, was a particularly large nuisance, always leaving offerings of rather-stinky fish on the doorstep. Alba found it particularly hilarious, laughing at the dog who thought he was a cat.

In late October Ben _et al._ moved into to a small brownstone about four blocks from us. Our own house was oddly silent without them, and I found myself spending most days walking or reading, trying to complete my PhD at the kitchen table. Poseidon continued with his lecturing, coming home each night slightly exhausted and ready to be with Percy. He had adapted to fatherhood amazingly well – possibly through past experience with claimed children – and spent every evening playing, or reading, or walking.

Life, of course, is never easy – and, at Percy's five month mark in January, things started to crash down.

It started slowly, with Athena arriving at our doorstep in the middle of the night, making no efforts to mask her white gown or otherworldly glow; I answered the door on the fourth round of knocking, feeling a bit ridiculous with my pyjamas and messy hair. In her arms was an infant –

"Where's Poseidon?" she asked.

"Gone," I yawned back. "Come in, I'll make some tea – he'll be back by morning."

She sat on the couch, and I floundered around for the kettle and cups: God or not, tea always helped. "Who's that with you?"

"Annabeth," she said quietly. The name came out like a song; I would have butchered it like a hillbilly. "My daughter."

"Oh – " What could you say to that?

"Not like that," she corrected. "Virgin goddess – but, it's not all that hard to do. A bit of DNA and clay."

"If only mine was that easy," I grinned. "She's very pretty."

"Very," she agreed, eyes completely focussed on the child. Something big was going on, – something very big – but I was getting the distinct feeling that it wasn't for me to know. "How old?"

"A month."

"A bit younger than Percy, then."

"Yes."

The kettle boiled; I grabbed a box of cookies, and Athena nibbled politely. She didn't seem the least bit tired despite the early hour, though the baby was fast asleep. I dozed off, full of hot tea and very comfortable on the squishy couch, only to be startled awake by Poseidon's booming voice. "Athena? What are you doing?"

She cast a wary eye my way. "I can take the baby," I suggested, feeling a bit like a child around two grownups wanting to talk. "Introduce her to Percy?"

Annabeth was handed over with great hesitation; I made extra certain to hold her head as I moved upstairs. Percy, still asleep, didn't protest when I placed Annabeth beside him in the crib.

On leaving the nursery my ears were assaulted with Ancient Greek, the voices a bit too loud and strong to be coming from Poseidon and Athena in their human forms. The next few hours were spent eavesdropping; of course, the thing with listening-in is that you never get the full story – in my case, my Greek wasn't good enough to follow every word and idiom, and the two had the tendency to inject phrases from long-dead languages that I couldn't even name. By seven o'clock their anger started to fade, and at half-past I was dressed and preparing breakfast.

"Annabeth's in the nursery," I reported. "She sleeps as well as Percy."

She left with a nod, heading upstairs but not coming down again: One of those vanishing moves.

Poseidon was sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, looking as stressed as one of his undergrad students on midterm day. I poured cereal and prepared coffee; cut-up an orange; sat down with the newspaper, waiting for a hint. It didn't come until that night, lounging on the couch, watching a bad TV movie.

"Zeus has passed a new decree," he said quietly. "No god or goddess, from this day forth, can have contact with their mortal offspring for any reason. The punishments will be – severe."

The words took a moment to sink in. "You're leaving?"

"What? – No!" he said quickly. "I can live with smiting – the ocean's not going to spontaneously dissolve into nothingness. It might take a while to get the pieces back together; you'd have to visit at the beach."

He was serious. "But what about Percy?"

"Zeus wouldn't dare." I could feel every single one of his muscles tense.

"What about Athena?"

"That's an – unusual situation. Athena gives her – her brainchildren, for lack of a better word, as gifts to people. She won't break her vow, so it's the best way to display her devotion – there's got to be some pretty deep-rooted trust there for a _god_ to give their child to a mortal."

"But?" – There was always a 'but.'

"Chase freaked," Poseidon deflated. "Athena's smart, but a bit impulsive – didn't ask the guy; didn't realize that he's a climbing academic, more-concerned with publications than parenthood. Athena was pretty pissed, but took Annabeth back – worried about neglect, probably – but, with this new 'decree,' the baby has to be returned."

It was downright cruel: Zeus forcing his own _grandchild_ into a possibly-abusive home. Children couldn't be raised feeling unwanted. "Could we take her?"

"I asked, but Athena declined – " it wasn't all. "She's blaming me."

"You?" I sputtered. "You haven't done anything! – The world hasn't gone catatonic!"

"I missed the solstice meeting," he admitted. I hadn't even realized – "Official interference with official duties. Zeus sees it as a threat."

"You missed a meeting."

"I missed _the_ meeting," he corrected. "One of the big guys miss it; quite suddenly its OK for the little guys; world descends into chaos. Zeus, despite all his talk about being superior and godly, is more mortal than the rest of us. There isn't really a ruler; we're equal, everyone has their part - his is to keep balance. But, he's taken it a bit further. He's paranoid – all 'leaders' are. Probably sees it as an attempt to claim power."

"That's ridiculous." If Poseidon was one thing, it wasn't power-mad.

"Maybe so," he agreed. "But tell him that."

People didn't change – why would gods?

* * *

February: Percy was six months old, sitting up, a ball of laughs and smiles. We met with Alba and Lucy almost every day, Alba always bringing Percy 'gifts' of twigs/stones, bits of candy, or toys to play with. The two, despite the age gap, were closer then I would have ever imagined, more like siblings than cousins. It was nice thinking that Percy would have someone to tell his secrets to as he grew up; Alba, after all, had also been claimed.

Things were calm from the Zeus front, so Poseidon continued teaching. However, that didn't mean things up on Olympus were quiet: The other gods and spirits must have been anticipating war. Hermes visited multiple times each day with scrolls and weird weapon-like objects, and there was a near-constant stream of minor spirits pledging allegiance to Poseidon. He handled the constant interruptions with grace, always bowing respectfully and calling each spirit by name, pulling the bigger players aside for hushed chats. Despite circumstances, we were as happy as ever: Young family, with a home and hopes for the future – Percy learning to play the cello. Percy on the swim team. Percy getting accepted to Harvard or Oxford. The thought of war was a distant fantasy – Poseidon, most evenings, was more concerned about getting a pet dog and setting-up an education savings account. He started to eat dinner; he started to sleep at night.

Zeus visited me the Friday before March break, appearing silently on the sidewalk as I walked with Percy. "Don't bother," I ordered, walking a bit faster. He kept pace easily.

"Do you think that it'd last forever?"

- past the mail boxes.

"Keeping a god like a pet? Trying to turn him human?"

"He came to me freely," I didn't look back.

"To bang – then leave."

"Oh, aren't you an embodiment of morality and virtue. Did it ever occur to you that not everyone in existence is a –- "

"Pot calling the kettle black," he tsked. "In front of a child, too."

"Go away."

"Or what?"

Here was Zeus: King of the gods, a zillion years old, all-powerful/-omniscient, reduced to a bully.

"Or what?"

* * *

The next morning we packed up the VW, buckled in Percy, and spent the day slowly weaving towards Navani. Normally it would take about three hours of straight driving, but it was the first day of Spring Break and neither I nor Poseidon wanted to move very fast. The sun was setting as the Bug pulled into the driveway.

I hadn't mentioned my encounter with Zeus, not wanting to add extra stress. It was probably a smart choice: Poseidon, carrying the bags, collapsed at the kitchen table in an exhausted heap, staring angrily at his briefcase – there were about a hundred _Intertidal Ecology & Diversity_ papers to mark. He had bags under his eyes that I had never seen before.

"Maybe you should go for a swim?" He was always in a good mood when he returned.

His eyes moved out the window towards the beach: High tide, still surf, bright moon. "Sleep?"

"Swim," I insisted, practically stuffing him out the door before turning my attention to Percy. He was grumpy after the car ride and in need of a good play before bed; we settled down to peek-a-boo, listening to the radio croon soft jazz.

The next day was cold and windy, the sky grey and threatening rain. We bundled up in Wellies and cable-knit sweaters, and wandered the beach heading south. Poseidon held Percy, sometimes knee-deep in water, walking without a splash and pointing to all types of life that I had never noticed. Percy looked at everything with wide eyes.

"He's cute now," Poseidon joked. "Just wait until he's two – or four."

"He'll be just as wonderful."

"Yeah."

"What do you think he'll be able to do?"

He answered quickly, evidently having thought of the question before. "Water stuff."

"Descriptive."

He chuckled; the ocean mirrored him with a pleasant gurgle. "Most demi-gods don't manifest until they hit puberty. They'll show signs, of course – Percy's favourite time of day is bath." – and, boy, did he scream when it was time to get out of the tub – "A lot of them have attention problems, – stimulus over-load – and reading issues – their brain's been wired for the High languages."

"Weird."

"A bit," he agreed. "Probably because they mark our Golden Age - Ancient Gaelic, - before the Irish/Scottish split - Japanese, whatever, though Greek's the most prominent. Essentially every spirit speaks it now – it's the universal language. It's useful being born with the ability."

"Until you hit grade school."

"Which is when the camp takes over." - he'd mentioned it a couple times, though I still hadn't received a full explanation. Apparently, it showed. "It's a place where children can go to become comfortable with themselves – or, if they're in trouble, it's a haven. That happens more often then it should."

"So you're a closet camp counsellor?"

"You could say that," he winked. "A good friend oversees it; I've never met anyone so dedicated."

I attended summer camp as child – Camp Qwanoes, Camp Columbia. I had a half-dozen photo albums stuffed with memories; after my parents died I spent every summer working as a counsellor at Camp Olave. They were interesting places; so amazingly different than the rest of reality. Hiking, and picking wild blueberries, swimming – the kids were never worried about politics or war. At the end of the week they'd be pleasantly bronzed, bug-bitten, and exceedingly smelly; nobody wanted to leave.

"It's not too far from here, actually," he noted. "The Mashomack Preserve."

"What?" – I had visited the preserve before: Over two thousand acres of hiking trails and wildlife, open daily to the public. There'd never been anything … unusual about it.

"It's – complicated," he struggled. "The camp's on the preserve – it _is_ the preserve. But, it's not. If you're – "

"Special?" I offered.

"Not human," he corrected. "If you're not human, you arrive at Μιγάς – Camp Half-Blood; if you're human, you get Mashomack."

"Double realities."

"More or less."

A group of humpbacks had joined us; I watched the whales instead of puzzling over how the laws of physics had just been laughed at.

Ben and Lucy arrived on Monday, their car stuffed with Alba's play things. The storm was still brewing outside, so we were, most of the time, stuck inside playing games, listening to music, and reading. I attempted to teach Poseidon and Alba how to play Trouble; Poseidon caught on quickly, and Alba came up with her own rules. Tuesday saw more rain; Wednesday rain and wind; and Thursday saw disaster.

* * *

_Happy Victoria Day, and a great big "THANKS!" for all the reviews/favourites/alerts that flood my inbox! Next chapter will be up on May 29th!_


	11. Alaska

**Alaska**

_March 24th, 1989_

Poseidon startled awake just after three in the morning, eyes wide and breath shallow. "Something's happened," he was already jumping out of bed. "Something – "

"Percy?" I mumbled. Percy's crib was in our room, only a few feet from my bed; he was sound asleep. "What?"

"I have to go."

He was racing out of the room; I chased after, bursting onto the storm-swept coast just in time to see his body completely dissolve into water and merge with the waves. Gone, just like that. I paced the beach until my clothes were soaked and I started to shiver; moved inside, and stood looking out the window, not caring about the puddle of water under my feet. Dawn broke and Lucy stumbled downstairs.

"What's going on?" she said, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. I remained silent, eyes searching in vain for any sign of Poseidon's form. A minute later Lucy placed a cup of tea in my hand; I hadn't even heard the kettle boil.

"Danny?" she prodded. "He's – gone?" Silence again. "Ben and I know that there's something – odd – about him. But, has he left for good?"

"No," and I honestly believed it. Some emergency – maybe the sharks had all just taken a vow of vegetarianism. An unscheduled iceberg drift. Penguins protesting their exile to the southern hemisphere. Krill civil rights. "But, maybe we should leave." If there was trouble stirring, then maybe having Percy around the ocean wasn't a good thing.

Lucy nodded, and said that she was going to go wake up Ben and Alba; I went to Percy. We packed in record time, stuffing the cars and cleaning Navani half-heartedly. Lucy took the keys to the VW without asking, falling in behind Ben whose car was stuffed with luggage and toys; neither of them asked what was going on.

We took the seaside route, rumbling down the coast and passing summer houses in various states of repair. My eye looked past them, always to the ocean. When we stopped to fill-up the cars the great mystery was revealed on the cover of the New York Times.

**_Largest U.S. Tanker Spill Spews 270,000 Barrels of Oil Off Alaska_**

_By Philip Shabecoff_

_A tanker filled to capacity with crude oil ran aground and ruptured today 25 miles from the southern end of __the Trans Alaska Pipeline, spewing her cargo into water rich in marine life._

_More than 270,000 barrels of oil have been sent into Prince William Sound, making this the largest tanker spill in United States history. _

_Opponents of further development of Arctic oilfields have seized on the spill as evidence of what they perceive as the environmental risks involved. _

_This morning the spill was about 2 miles long and 250 feet wide, said Petty Officer John Gonzales, a spokesman for the Coast Guard station at the port of Valdez, from which the Exxon Valdez departed late Thursday, bound for Long Beach. Calif., with her load of 1,260,000 barrels. _

_Petty Officer Gonzales said no one had died or been injured in the accident. He said the Exxon Valdez had been maneuvering around icebergs when she ran aground on Bligh Reef, 25 miles south of the port. Whether the maneuvering was the cause of the accident is under investigation, he said. Another Ship to Rescue … _

"This is it," I gasped.

"What?" Ben was peaking over my shoulder. "Oil spill?"

"Why he left."

His brow furrowed in confusion, but, again, no voiced questions. We got back into the cars. Beach House country gradually gave way to the wilderness; in the distance, I could see the Mashomack Preserve on Shelter Island. For a moment I caught myself wondering if there were any demigods or claimed children there right now – ones, like Athena's baby, who had been rejected by their mortal parents and left with nowhere to go.

I caught sight of Poseidon just past Greenport: He was coming out of the surf in the regular jeans and polo, perfectly dry, shoulders hunched as though he had just finished an intense work-out. I was opening the door before the car had come to a stop, running down the beach with Percy's car seat in one hand. Lucy and Ben, both standing at the edge of the road, watched with wide eyes as we embraced.

"Don't do that again," I scolded. He kissed me hard. "I saw the paper."

"I can't stay – "

"How long will it take to clean-up?"

"Days – weeks. Oil's Hades' thing; we're incompatible." He kissed me again. "I didn't want to just vanish – I should be there now. Before it spreads."

"Truer words."

The voice came from behind – Zeus, in his armour, swaggering ever-closer. Poseidon positioned himself in front of me and Percy, eyes ablaze. "You?"

"Consequences would be dire." Dire? – Zeus had staged the oil spill? "And you still haven't learned. Your ocean is dying."

"Because of you."

"Because of you," Zeus echoed. "Placing your whore first."

The sky cackled with lightening and clouds billowed. The seas grew rough; up at the road Ben was gripping Lucy, sandwiching Alba in-between. I gasped as the tide came rushing in, building higher and higher, fish and women's bodies floundering with the currents as the water reached my knees – hips – shoulders – head. A milky-white hand reached out and pulled at Percy's car seat, another two latched onto my arms, and suddenly we were underwater.

I wasn't prepared; the arm took me on an inhale, and my lungs filled with freezing salt water. Eyes instinctively clenched closed; I could feel my attacker pulling me; tried to struggle, but got absolutely nowhere. Another breath – more water. Cold. Dark – then air. Coughing, sputtering, desperately sucking in precious oxygen.

We had breached a mile down the shore: Percy's car seat floating on the waves, three bronze-haired women poking their heads out of the water around him. I had my own escort, two women supporting my hypothermic body and another facing me. She was startlingly beautiful, like the ladies in Renaissance paintings: Shiny golden hair, pure white skin, and large blue eyes. When she spoke it sounded like a song.

"Allison Kersey?"

I nodded, unable to find the strength to form words.

"The Great Lord Wishes that One Bears You to Asylum. One's Sisters have Already Carried Your Gracious Brother."

* * *

Asylum, ironically, was on Shelter Island, in the shadow of the Mashomack Preserve/Camp Half-Blood. Ben, Lucy, and Alba sat on the beach, shivering around a fire and sending their saviours/attackers - sea spirits, I guessed - anxious glances. Across the bay thunder clapped and the ocean rose in unnatural waves. Ages ago, before Percy, Poseidon had once offered to stop the tides for me; I had giggled, pushing it away as a joke. You can't stop the tide.

Ben greeted me with a raised eyebrow and "So, you marry a god?"

"You're safe?" I countered. "OK?"

"The cars are totalled," he shrugged. "Tidal wave. Then – _poof!_ – we were here."

"Alright."

I sat down next to the fire, shivering madly, struggling to unbuckle Percy. Astonishingly, he – and the car seat – was perfectly dry and quite warm. I kept my cold, clammy hands to myself.

We weren't alone for long: Within five minutes of coming ashore a whole fleet of children came racing down the beach. Most ignored us, heading straight to where they had the best view of the battle; a few sent curious looks, apparently unaccustomed to seeing nymphs tend wounded travellers. Last, strolling around the corner with a handful of afghans, was a half-man/half-horse _thing_.

"Lady - and sir, madame," he greeted us with a bow. "Welcome. I'm Chiron - camp director. We heard ... Well. No. Is everyone alright? Here; they'll keep you warm."

I was a little bit shocked by his calm demeanour: Four humans had washed ashore into a magic camp, two gods were battling, – and might even destroy the world – and he was, ever-so-nicely, handing out blankets. Ben and Lucy both accepted in silence.

"Thank-you," I managed to stutter out our names. The only one seemingly unbothered by the situation was Alba, who stood in awe at all the 'big kids.'

"And this is Perseus?" Chiron was a sight to be seen: Massive, for one, and very controlled – philosopher, definitely not animal. It was a welcome anchor, though I was shocked at his interest in an infant.

Percy had fallen asleep next to the fire, utterly oblivious to everything that was happening around him: Another anchor. "Percy," I offered, swooping down and gently picking him up for a closer viewing. "Seven months."

"I'd be his uncle – " Chiron said with a grin. He seemed very pleased with the words.

"Forgive me," I said, blushing furiously. "But, you and Poseidon don't look _anything_ alike."

He chuckled in response. "None of us first-borns are truly related, – just like Poseidon and Zeus; we're elemental. But, after spending so much time together, you're more-or-less siblings. The chaotic family tree starts one generation down."

I looked at the children and wondered how many of them were "related" to Percy through this or that ancestor. Most of them looked to be the result of minor spirits - naiads, and the like; only two or three radiated an other-worldly glow. But, then again, Chiron wasn't sparkly, and he was of the first-born …

"Would you like to return to the camp? We have beds and dry clothes."

I looked out across the bay, seeing nothing but the occasional lightening strike. The children must have possessed better eyesight because they had been emitting excited curses since arrival. "Do you think it'll last long?"

"Gods," he shook his head. "We blink and a hundred years have passed."

Yes, then – it could take a while. But I didn't want to leave.

"So – have a lot of children come over the past few months?"

"Quite a few," he nodded. He actually seemed relieved. "Most were living in abusive households, where their mortal parents only put up with them because of the gifts. It's better that they're here: Properly educated, and around people who care." I hugged Percy a little bit tighter.

Time – though, I'm not sure how much – passed; enough for my clothes to dry. The sun moved across the sky; the children, though still absolutely enthralled, found boulders to sit on. Ben and Lucy chanced a few words with Chiron; Alba attached herself to a camper. I felt a bit guilty involving them. Lifting the mist opened your eyes to all types of hellish beasts. But …

We grew so accustomed to the lightening bolts that, when they stopped, the silence was jarring. The sea turned to glass. A few of the children passed over gold coins to their peers.

"What happened? – Who won?"

"The war? There are never any winners. Defeating one would destroy all," Chiron sighed. "But Zeus won this battle."

After all Poseidon's talk of smiting I took Chiron's words to mean that – _bam!_ – I was a widow. When Poseidon glided out of the water some five minutes later I collapsed in shock.

"You were dead."

"Nah." He kissed my tears. "Are you – ?"

"Fine. Everyone's fine."

The children had taken a step back, and stood watching with wide eyes and unchecked curiosity. Chiron coughed loudly.

"I think we should move up to the Big House."

Chrion went first, followed closely by Ben and Lucy; Poseidon took Percy in one arm, my hand in the other, and we began the trek to camp. The rocks were slippery with seaweed; I was looking down, calculating every step, when the air exploded.

Light – thunder – light, the stench of ozone. Screams – the children scattering into the woods. Lucy and Ben were replaced with two charred corpses.

Shock.

There was no point rushing over – no point checking for a pulse. I stood there, thankful that Poseidon was holding Percy.

_Gone_.

Suddenly Poseidon was sixty feet tall, scooping me up in one giant hand, dashing from beach to woods, and a large house surrounded by trees. Then, normal-sized, hustling me indoors, out of firing distance. I felt dumb, mute, and stupid; let him direct me towards a chesterfield; sat when he said sit; held onto Percy. Listened with half-perked ears when Chiron came barrelling through the doors with a screaming Alba.

"Poseidon!"

"The terms were that I'd settle affairs – "

"Meaning 'goodbye, audios' – not two weeks notice."

"And five minutes would be enough?"

"They should have been."

"Chiron – "

"You stupid child," Chiron snapped. "The girl's lost her entire family _and_ her husband, all in one day. Now all you have to do is take the boy – "

"You can't take Percy," I whispered. Both men stopped yelling.

I watched as Poseidon walked over and knelt on the floor in front of me. My stomach churned; his face was ridden with sorrow. Utter sorrow: I knew how attached he was to ... "Zeus had commanded my return. I – "

"I understand." Clear as crystal.

"Without my protection you'll be open for attack."

"You can't take Percy," I said, a little bit firmer. "You can't – please."

"He'd be safe here, at camp. And cared for. Or with me: Nobody could reach him."

I bit my lip, feeling entirely selfish: Putting my own happiness before Percy's life. What sort of mother – ? "Could I stay with him?"

"I'm sorry – "

"You can't take Percy."

"I thought not," he sighed. "Walk with me?"

The sky was clear; grudgingly, I passed Percy over to Poseidon. We walked across camp, past cabins and archery ranges and rock climbing walls, until reaching a freshwater beach. Poseidon sat down, and patted the ground beside him. I sat mutely.

"I won't be able to see him again," he began, head moving down and breathing in Percy's baby smell. One arm wrapped around my shoulder. I leaned against him trying not to cry. "It's – not going to be easy for you. All sorts of creatures chomp on demigods. Chiron will be able to teach you some self-defence: You'll have to move; change your name - totally new identity.

"Zeus said he won't personally target you – that was part of our bargain."

A small relief: Now there was only a million other gods and spirits to worry about. "What will you do?"

"Clean up Zeus's mess, for one. Act all-mighty and -powerful. Take my seat on council. Attend meetings; bow and shake hands. Pretend to enjoy it." The Greek gods were interesting in that they were – are – imperfect. The Christians preach morality, reason, perfection; the Greeks exhibited emotion, made mistakes.

"What do I do?"

_Forget_. Forgetting would be nice – horrible.

"Hide. And forget – find some nice guy. Help Percy out – when he gets old enough, send him to camp."

We sat for a long time, watching the water and hills, Poseidon gripping Percy as tightly as he could. Campers passed by to gawk; I ignored them. The sun set; lanterns lit up the grounds and the scent of dinner wafted through the air. I hadn't eaten since the night before, but the thought of starving to death was more appealing than leaving.

"I have to go."

Another hour passed.

"Ally – "

I sat up slowly, and watched as Poseidon kissed Percy and whispered his last words. He struggled to let go; for a long while both of us held Percy, neither wanting to move. Like our first coffee date – reluctance to part. Something more was going on.

"Go to the Big House, eat some dinner, ask Chiron to give you Monsters 101. Don't look back."

Tears were flowing freely now; I nodded, and started walking backwards. How could you sum up everything into a few fleeting words?

"I still love you."

"Good." He was crying too. "Because I still love you."

* * *

**Fin**

* * *

___Once more, a HUGE thank-you to everyone who has read, reviewed, alerted/favourited over the past several weeks! It's always a huge relief to find that people are not only reading, but also enjoying!_

_There's a short eppy coming your way on **Wednesday**, and I hope to be writing up a few one- and two-shots about Ally and Poseidon in their pre-Percy days - possibly a run-in with Hades! - so keep an eye out!_

_Cheers!_

_-HR_


	12. S Jackson

**S. Jackson**

The doorbell rang at quarter-past one, part way through _Days of Our Lives_.

"What?" Mrs. Madaffari snapped, clicking the intercom buzzer. She was never in a good mood, though interrupting her daily soap opera marathon could quickly turn it into a bad mood. Her tenants - seventeen apartments worth - learned that quickly.

"Hi," the voice squeaked, mousy and a bit fuzzy. The system hadn't been upgraded since the 60s. "I was just walking by and saw that you have an empty suite."

"Yeah? So?"

"Could I see it, please?"

"Wait."

She turned off the TV, threw on a moth-eaten cardigan, and stomped downstairs making sure to lock her door on the way out. _Probably another addict_, she silently grumbled. _Won't take them – never pay their rent, and leave the place a sty._

A woman was waiting outside the doors, pretty and young, with a baby on one hip and two suitcases at her feet. _Single mom_, Mrs. Madaffari guessed – but, then, this one was different. Her hair was healthy and shiny, her skin flawless and make up subtle, fancy wedding ring, clothes – _Burberry_? And on the child, too?

_Witness protection_, she decided. _Mafia wife_.

The suite was a third-floor walk-up; the suitcases hit every step with a _think-thump_, but the building had seen worse damage in its hundred-year history. It was on the fringes of the bad side of town, always had been, though not so deep that Mrs. Madaffari had to clean-up needles each day.

"So, what do you do, Miss?"

"I'm – I. Oh. I study English."

"A writer?" Mrs. Madaffari smirked. "You should talk to Jake in two-one. He's a writer, too. Went to Avalon Community College, even. Ever write a book?"

"No. Not yet."

"Need to go to school for that. They offer certificates now, you know. As soon as you get one the publishers just come screaming."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

The flat, 3-07, had two small bedrooms and came fully furnished; it had previously been let to a Spanish family, and still smelled a bit like tacos. The paint was faded, the carpet dirty, and the woman looked around as if wondering whether her baby would get lead poisoning if he gnawed on … anything. But it had large windows, and with a bit of love and elbow grease …

"This is Percy, by the way," she said, dropping the suitcases. "And I'm Sally Jackson."


End file.
